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ANNA  CHAPIN  RAY 


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ON    THE    FIRING    LINE 


ON    THE 

FIRING  LINE 

8  Eomance  of  g>out|)  Africa 

BY 

ANNA   CHAPIN  RAY 

AUTHOR  OF  "  BY  THE  GOOD  SAINTE  ANNE,"  "THE  DOMINANT  STRAIN," 
"  TEDDY  :  HER  BOOK,"  ETC. 

AND 

HAMILTON  BROCK  FULLER 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1905 


Copyright,  1905, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved 
Published  April,  1905 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


ON  THE  FIRING  LINE 


CHAPTER  ONE 

SIX  feet  one  in  his  stockings,  broad-shouldered 
and  without  an  ounce  of  extra  flesh,  Harvard 
Weldon  suddenly  halted  before  one  of  a  line 
of  deck  chairs. 

"I  usually  get  what  I  want,  Miss  Dent,"  he 
observed  suggestively. 

"You  are  more  fortunate  than  most  people." 
Her  answering  tone  was  dry. 

Most  men  would  have  been  baffled  by  her  apparent 
indifference.  Not  so  was  Weldon.  Secure  in  the 
possession  of  a  good  tailor  arid  an  equally  good 
digestion,  he  was  willing  to  await  the  leisurely  course 
of  events. 

"My  doctor  always  advises  mild  exercise  after 
lunch,11  he  continued. 

"  You  are  in  the  care  of  a  physician  ?  "  she  queried, 
with  a  whimsical  glance  up  at  his  brown  face  and 
athletic  figure. 

"  Not  just  now.     I  was  once,  however.1' 
l 


On  the  Firing  Line 


She  raised  her  brows  in  polite  interrogation.  Her 
involuntary  thawing  of  a  moment  before  had  given 
place  to  absolute  conventionality.  Weldon  smiled 
to  himself,  as  he  noted  the  change.  He  had  been 
at  sea  for  three  days  now,  and  those  three  days  had 
been  chiefly  spent  in  trying  to  penetrate  the  social 
shell  of  his  next  neighbor  at  table.  It  was  not  so 
much  that  Ethel  Dent  was  undeniably  pretty  as  that 
he  had  been  piqued  by  her  frosty  reception  of  his 
efforts  to  supplement  the  services  of  a  careless 
waiter. 

Now,  uninvited,  he  dropped  into  the  empty  chair 
next  her  own. 

"If  I  may?"  he  said  questioningly,  as  he  raised 
his  cap.  "Yes,  I  have  had  a  doctor  twice.  Once 
was  measles,  once  a  collar  bone  broken  in  football. 
Both  times,  I  was  urged  to  take  a  walk  after 
luncheon.  Is  Miss  Arthur  —  ?  " 

He  hesitated  for  the  right  word.  Still  ignoring 
his  obvious  hint,  Ethel  Dent  supplied  the  word, 
without  charity  for  her  luckless  chaperon. 

"  Horridly  seasick."  She  pointed  out  to  the  level 
steely-gray  sea.  "  And  on  this  duck-pond,"  she 
added. 

Her  accent  was  expressive.     Weldon  laughed. 

"  Perhaps  she  is  n't  as  used  to  the  duck-pond  as 
you  are." 

The  girl  brushed  a  lock  of  vivid  gold  hair  from  her 
eyes ;  then  she  sat  up,  to  add  emphasis  to  her  words. 


On  the  Firing  Line  3 

"  Miss  Arthur  has  been  to  America  and  back 
seven  times  and  to  Australia  once,1'  she  said 
conclusively. 

"  As  globe-trotter,  or  as  commercial  traveller  ?  " 

"  Neither.  As  professional  chaperon.  When  she 
applied  for  me,  she  stated  —  "  The  girl  caught  her 
breath  and  stopped  short. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked  encouragingly. 

She  shook  her  head.  Again,  for  an  instant, 
Weldon  could  see  the  humanity  beneath  the  veneer- 
ing. Moreover,  he  liked  what  he  saw.  The  blue 
eyes  were  honest  and  steady.  One  mocking  dimple 
belied  the  gravity  of  the  firm  lips. 

"  What  did  she  state  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

"  It 's  not  manners  to  tell  tales  about  one's  com- 
panion," she  demurred. 

"  Not  if  you  spell  it  with  a  little  c.  With  a 
capital,  it  becomes  professional,  and  you  can  say 
what  you  choose.  Miss  Arthur  is  a  righteous  lady  ; 
nevertheless,  she  is  a  bit  professional.  And  you 
were  saying  that  the  lady  stated  — " 

"  That  she  never  had  been  seasick  in  her  life." 

"  Oh.  And  did  she  also  produce  certificates  as  to 
her  moral  character?  Or  is  fibbing  merely  bad 
form  nowadays  ?  " 

With  swift  inconsequence,  the  girl  shifted  to  the 
other  side  of  the  discussion. 

"  Of  course,  this  may  be  a  first  attack." 

"Of  course,"  Weldon  assented  gravely. 


On  the  Firing  Line 


But  again  she  shifted  her  ground. 

"  Only,"  she  continued,  with  her  eyes  thoughtfully 
fixed  on  the  distant,  impersonal  point  where  sea  and 
sky  met ;  "  only  it  is  a  little  strange  that,  yesterday 
I  heard  her  tell  the  stewardess  she  never  took  beef- 
tea  when  she  was  seasick." 

"  Oh."  Weldon's  eyes  joined  hers  on  the  sky-line. 
"  I  have  heard  of  similar  cases  before." 

"  She  offered  to  come  on  deck,"  Ethel  went  on 
quietly.  "  It  was  generous  of  her,  for  she  knew  I 
was  left  'entirely  alone.  Nevertheless,  I  persuaded 
her  that  she  was  better  off  in  her  berth." 

Leaning  back  in  the  chair  of  the  absent  invalid, 
Weldon  watched  his  companion  out  of  the  corners 
of  his  eyes  arid  rejoiced  at  the  change  in  her.  Even 
while  he  rejoiced,  he  marvelled.  A  Canadian  by 
birth  and  education,  he  had  rarely  come  in  contact 
with  English  girls.  At  first,  he  had  been  totally  at 
a  loss  to  account  for  the  haughty  chill  in  the  manner 
of  this  one.  Grown  accustomed  to  that,  he  was  still 
more  at  a  loss  to  account  for  this  sudden  awakening 
into  humanity.  He  had  as  yet  to  learn  that  two 
days  of  having  her  only  companion  seasick,  coupled 
with  a  sparkling  sun  and  a  crisp  breeze,  can  rouse 
even  a  duenna-led  English  girl  to  the  point  of  ex- 
pressing her  opinions  pithily  and  with  vigor. 

As  the  Dunottar  Castle  had  slid  away  from 
Southampton,  three  days  before,  Weldon  had  tramped 
briskly  up  and  down  the  crowded  deck,  taking  mental 


On  the  Firing  Line 


note  of  his  companions  for  the  next  two  weeks. 
Among  the  caped  and  capped  throng  leaning  over 
the  rail  and  staring  after  the  receding  shore  with 
homesick  eyes,  he  saw  little  to  interest  him.  Neither 
did  the  shore  interest  him  in  the  least.  His  own 
partings  had  come,  two  weeks  before,  when  the 
steam  yacht  had  put  back  from  Sandy  Hook.  Now, 
accordingly,  he  went  in  search  of  the  dining-room 
steward  to  whom  he  gave  much  gold  and  instruction. 
Then  he  betook  himself  to  his  stateroom  where  his 
mates  were  already  busy  settling  their  belongings. 

The  luncheon  hour  disclosed  the  fact  that  the 
dining-room  steward  had  earned  his  money  and  had 
digested  his  instruction.  A  short  pause  on  the 
threshold  informed  Weldon  that  the  Dunottar 
Castle  held  exactly  one  pretty  girl ;  the  steward 
informed  Weldon  that  the  vacant  chair  beside  her 
was  his  own.  Weldon  picked  up  his  napkin  with  a 
brief  prayer  of  thanksgiving.  What  if  he  was  going 
out  to  Africa  in  search  of  Boers  and  glory  ?  There 
was  no  especial  reason  he  should  not  enjoy  himself  on 
the  way. 

Weldon  had  gained  a  wide  experience  of  American 
girls.  Well-bred,  well-chaperoned,  nevertheless  they 
offered  possible  points  of  contact  to  the  strangers 
with  whom  they  were  thrown.  To  all  seeming, 
Ethel  Dent  was  as  accessible  as  the  outer  wall  of  an 
ice  palace.  Beside  her  decorous  ignoring  of  his 
existence,  Miss  Arthur,  lean  and  spectacled  and 


6  On  the  Firing  Line 

sniffy,  appeared  to  be  of  maternal  kindliness,  albeit 
her  only  advances  had  been  a  muffled  request  for  the 
salt.  The  next  morning,  Miss  Arthur's  chair  had 
been  empty,  and  her  charge,  left  to  herself,  had  been 
more  glacially  circumspect  than  ever.  Whatever 
skittish  traits  the  pair  might  develop,  Weldon  felt 
assured  that  they  would  be  solely  upon  the  side  of 
Miss  Ophelia  Arthur. 

Now,  however,  he  was  giving  himself  praise  for  his 
own  astute  generalship.  It  was  no  slight  matter,  at 
the  end  of  the  third  day,  to  find  himself  sitting  next 
to  Miss  Dent  in  the  line  of  steamer  chairs  and  even 
bending  over  to  pick  up  the  novel  she  had  dropped. 
In  his  elation,  Weldon  neglected  to  give  credit  to 
Miss  Arthur  whose  digestive  woes  were  the  cause  of 
the  whole  situation.  Only  the  riper  Christianity 
which  comes  with  declining  years  can  make  one 
wholly  loyal  to  a  seasick  comrade. 

He  gave  himself  yet  more  praise,  next  morning  at 
sunrise,  when  he  found  himself  pacing  the  deck  at 
Ethel  Dent's  side.  As  a  rule,  he  and  his  mates  rose 
betimes  and,  clad  in  slippers  and  pajamas,  raced 
up  and  down  the  decks  to  keep  their  muscles  in 
hard  order,  before  descending  for  the  tubbing  which 
is  the  matin  duty  of  every  self-respecting  British 
subject.  This  morning,  instead  of  the  deserted  decks 
and  the  pajama-clad  athletes,  the  passengers  were 
out  early  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  Madeira, 
and  Weldon,  starchy  and  glowing  with  much  cold 


On  the  Firing  Line 


water,  was  on  deck  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of 
Ethel. 

Miss  Arthur  was  still  invisible,  and  the  girl  was 
discreetly  late  about  appearing.  The  deck  was  full, 
when  at  last  she  came  in  sight ;  and  it  seemed,  to 
her  first  glance,  that  she  was  the  only  unattended 
person  abroad,  that  morning.  Her  chin  rose  a  little 
aggressively  as  she  moved  forward.  Then  her  eyes 
lighted.  Cap  in  hand,  Weldon  stood  in  her  direct 
path. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said.  "We've  just  passed 
the  lighthouse  and  are  nearly  opposite  Canical.  If 
you  come  over  here,  you  can  see  it." 

His  tone  was  matter-of-course,  yet  masterful.  At 
the  very  beginning  of  her  fourth  solitary  day,  Ethel 
admitted  to  herself  that  it  was  good  to  have  some 
one  take  possession  of  her  in  this  summary  fashion. 

"  Is  Miss  Arthur  still  unhappy  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he 
swung  into  step  at  her  side. 

"  Yes.  She  has  taken  to  her  hymnal,  this  morn- 
ing, in  search  of  consolation.  I  tried  to  coax  her 
to  get  up  and  go  ashore  ;  but  she  said  there  was  no 
use  in  experiencing  the  same  woe  twice." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  quite  catch  the  lady's  line 
of  argument,1"  Weldon  remarked  doubtfully. 

The  girl  laughed.  Then  she  decorously  checked  her 
laugh  and  endeavored  to  turn  sympathetic  once  more. 

"  She  means  to  make  one  prolonged  illness.  Else 
she  will  only  recover  in  order  to  fall  ill  again." 


8  On  the  Firing  Line 

"Oh."  Weldon's  tone  was  still  blank.  "And 
shall  you  go  ashore  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  am  sorry.  You  would  find  any  amount  to 
see." 

"I  am  sorry,  too,"  she  said  frankly.  "Still,  I 
don't  see  how  I  can,  without  Miss  Arthur." 

His  hands  in  his  pockets,  Weldon  took  a  dozen 
steps  in  doubtful  silence. 

"  1 11  tell  you  what  we  can  do,  Miss  Dent :  Harry 
Carew,  one  of  the  fellows  going  out  with  me,  had  a 
note  of  introduction  to  Colonel  Scott  and  his  wife. 
He  is  the  pompous  old  Englishman  across  the  table. 
I'll  get  Carew  to  introduce  us,  and  perhaps  they 
will  let  us  go  ashore  with  them." 

"  But  are  they  going  ?  "  she  asked  irresolutely. 

"Surely.  We  have  three  hours  here.  I  know 
Carew's  mother  well ;  she  and  Mrs.  Scott  were  school- 
mates at  Madame  Prattler's  in  London." 

She  looked  up  with  sudden  interest. 

"  Madame  Prattler's  ?  That  is  where  I  have  been, 
for  the  past  five  years." 

"Then  we  are  all  right,"  Weldon  said  coolly. 
"  The  arrangement  is  made.  Carew  is  the  only 
missing  link.  Excuse  me,  and  I  will  go  in  search 
of  him." 

It  was  high  noon  when  the  Dunottar  Castle  finally 
weighed  anchor  at  Funchal  and  started  on  her  long, 
unbroken  voyage  to  the  southward.  Side  by  side  in 


On  the  Firing  Line  9 

the  stern,  Weldon  and  Ethel  looked  back  at  the 
blue  harbor  dotted  with  the  myriad  little  boats,  at 
the  quaint  town  backed  with  its  amphitheatre  of 
sunlit  hills  and,  poised  on  the  summit,  the  church 
where  Nossa  Senhora  do  Monte  keeps  watch  and 
ward  over  the  town  beneath.  Ethel's  experience 
was  the  broader  for  her  hilarious  ride  in  a  bullock- 
drawn  palanquin.  Weldon's  experience  was  more 
instructive.  It  taught  him  that,  her  hat  awry  and 
her  yellow  hair  loosened  about  her  laughing  face, 
Ethel  Dent  was  tenfold  more  attractive  than  when 
she  made  her  usual  decorous  entrance  to  the  dining- 
room. 

Mrs.  Scott  had  been  a  willing  chaperon  and  an 
efficient  one.  Nevertheless,  as  they  stood  together 
in  the  stern,  looking  out  across  the  gold-flecked  sea, 
Weldon  felt  that  he  had  made  a  long  stride,  that 
morning,  towards  acquaintance  with  his  companion. 
And,  even  now,  the  voyage  was  nearly  all  before 
them. 

As  if  in  answer  to  his  thoughts,  she  lifted  her 
eyes  to  his  face. 

"  Twelve  more  days ! "  she  said  slowly. 

"  Are  you  sorry  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Glad  and  sorry  both.  I  love  the  sea  ;  but  home 
is  at  the  end  of  it." 

"  You  live  out  there  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  smiled  at  the  question. 


10  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Yes,  if  out  there  means  Cape  Town.  At  least, 
my  parents  live  there.1" 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  England  ? "  he 
queried,  while,  abandoning  all  pretence  of  interest 
in  the  fast-vanishing  town,  he  turned  his  back  to 
the  rail  in  order  to  face  his  companion  more  directly. 

"  Always,  except  for  one  year,  six  years  ago,  and 
a  summer  —  summer  in  England,  I  mean  —  two 
years  later." 

Rather  inconsequently,  Weldon  attacked  the  side 
issue  suggested  by  her  words. 

"  How  does  it  seem  to  have  one's  seasons  standing 
on  their  heads  ?  " 

She  answered  question  with  question. 

"  Have  n't  you  been  out  before  ?  " 

"No." 

"  I  supposed  you  had  taken  the  voyage  any  num- 
ber of  times.  But  about  the  seasons,  it  doesn't 
count  for  much  until  you  come  to  Christmas.  No 
England-born  mortal  can  hang  up  his  stocking  in 
mid-summer  without  a  pang  of  regretful  home- 
sickness." 

Weldon  laughed. 

"  Do  you  substitute  a  refrigerator  for  a  chimney 
corner  ?  "  he  asked.  "  But  are  you  England-born  ?  " 

"  Yes.  My  father  went  out  only  seven  years  ago. 
The  'home'  tradition  is  so  strong  that  I  was  sent 
back  to  school  and  for  a  year  of  social  life.  My 
little  brother  goes  to  Harrow  in  two  years.  Even 


On  the  Firing  Line  11 

in  Cape  Town,  a  few  people  still  hold  true  to  the 
tradition  of  the  public  school.11 

Weldon  nodded  assent. 

"  We  meet  it  in  Canada,  now  and  then  ;  not  too 
often,  though.  So  in  reality  you  are  almost  as 
much  a  stranger  to  Cape  Town  as  I  am.11 

"Quite.  My  father  says  it  is  all  changed  now. 
It  used  to  be  a  lazy  little  place ;  now  it  is  pande- 
monium, soldiers  and  supplies  going  out,  time-ex- 
pired men  and  invalids  coming  in.  Mr.  Weldon  —  " 

His  questioning  smile  answered  the  pause  in  her 
sentence. 

"  Well  ? "  he  asked,  after  a  prolonged  interval. 

Her  teeth  shut  on  her  lower  lip,  she  stared  at 
the  wide  blue  sea  with  wide  blue  eyes.  Something 
in  its  restless  tossing,  in  the  changing  lights  that 
darted  back  to  her  from  the  crests  of  the  waves, 
seemed  to  be  holding  her  in  an  hypnotic  trance. 
Out  of  the  midst  of  the  trance  she  spoke  again,  and 
it  was  plain  to  Weldon,  as  he  listened  to  her  low, 
intent  voice,  that  her  thoughts  were  not  upon  the 
sea  nor  yet  upon  him. 

"  It  ought  to  terrify  me,"  she  said.  "  I  mean  the 
war,  of  course.  I  ought  to  dread  the  going  out 
into  the  atmosphere  of  it.  I  don't.  Sometimes  I 
think  I  must  have  fighting  blood  in  my  veins.  In- 
stead of  being  frightened  at  what  my  father  writes 
me,  I  feel  stirred  by  it  all,  as  if  I  were  ready  for 
anything.  I  went  out  to  Aldershot,  one  day  last 


12  On  the  Firing  Line 

year;  but  that  was  only  so  many  dainty  frills,  so 
much  playing  soldier.  That 's  not  what  I  mean  at 
all."  Turning  suddenly,  she  looked  up  directly  into 
Weldon's  dark  gray  eyes.  "One  of  my  cousins 
wants  to  be  a  nurse.  She  lives  at  Piquetberg  Road  ; 
but  she  has  been  visiting  friends  who  live  in  Natal 
on  the  edge  of  the  fighting,  where  she  has  seen 
things  as  they  happen.  In  her  last  letter,  she  told 
me  that  she  was  only  waiting  for  my  uncle's  permis- 
sion to  go  out  as  a  nurse."" 

"  Is  that  what  you  would  do  ?  " 

Her  head  lifted  itself  proudly. 

"  No.  She  can  take  care  of  the  wounded  men,  if 
she  chooses.  For  my  part,  I  'd  rather  cheer  on  the 
men  who  are  starting  for  the  front.  If  I  could 
know  that  one  man,  one  single  man,  fought  the 
better  for  having  known  me,  I  should  feel  as  if  I 
had  done  my  share."" 

She  spoke  with  fiery  vigor ;  then  her  eyes  dropped 
again  to  the  dancing  waves.  When  at  length  she 
spoke  again,  she  was  once  more  the  level-voiced 
English  girl  who  sat  next  him  at  the  table. 

"  You  are  going  out  to  Cape  Town  to  stay,  Mr. 
Weldon?"  she  asked,  with  an  accent  so  utterly 
conventional  that  Weldon  almost  doubted  his  own 
ears. 

"  To  stay  until  the  war  ends,""  he  replied,  in  an 
accent  as  conventional  as  her  own. 

"  In  Cape  Town  ?" 


On  the  Firing  Line  13 

Then  she  felt  her  eyes  drawn  to  meet  his  eyes,  as 
he  answered  quietly, — 

"  I  shall  do  ray  best  to  make  myself  a  place  in  the 
firing  line." 

Again  her  conventionality  vanished,  and  she  gave 
him  her  hand,  as  if  to  seal  a  compact. 

"  I  hope  you  will  win  it  and  hold  it,"  she  re- 
sponded slowly.  "  I  can  wish  you  nothing  better." 


14  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  TWO 

ABERUGGED,  bedraggled  bundle  of  apolo- 
gies, Miss  Ophelia  Arthur  lay  prone  in  her 
steamer  chair,  her  cheeks  pale,  her  eyes 
closed.     Her  conscience,  directed  towards  the  inter- 
ests of  her  charge,  demanded  her  presence  on  deck. 
Once  on  deck  and  apparently  on  guard,  Miss  Arthur 
limply  subsided  into  a  species  of  coma.     Her  charge, 
meanwhile,  rosy  and  alert,  sat  in  the  lee  of  a  friendly 
ventilating  shaft.     Beside  her,  also  in  the  lee  of  the 
ventilating  shaft,  sat  Mr.  Harvard  Weldon. 

The  past  week  had  been  full  of  the  petty  events 
which  make  up  life  on  shipboard.  The  trail  of 
smoke  from  a  passing  steamer,  the  first  shoal  of 
flying  fish,  the  inevitable  dance,  the  equally  inevi- 
table concert  and,  most  inevitable  of  all,  the  Sabbatic 
contest  between  the  captain  and  the  fresh-water  cler- 
gyman who  insists  upon  reading  service :  all  these 
are  old  details,  yet  ever  new.  Throughout  them  all, 
Weldon  had  sturdily  maintained  his  place  at  Ethel's 
side.  By  tacit  consent,  the  girl  had  been  transferred 
to  the  motherly  care  of  Mrs.  Scott  who,  after  a  keen 
inspection  of  Weldon,  had  decided  that  it  was  safe 
to  take  upon  trust  this  clean-eyed,  long-legged  Cana- 
dian who  was  so  obviously  well-born  and  well-bred. 
Now  and  then  Carew  joined  the  group;  but  the 


On  the  Firing  Line  15 

handsome,  dashing  young  fellow  had  no  mind  to  play 
the  part  of  second  violin.  He  would  be  concert- 
master  or  nothing.  Accordingly,  he  withdrew  to 
the  rival  corner  where  a  swarthy  little  French  girl 
maintained  her  court  without  help  from  any  apparent 
chaperonage  whatsoever.  Left  in  possession  of  the 
field,  Weldon  made  the  most  of  his  chances.  The 
acknowledged  attendant  of  Ethel,  his  jovial  minis- 
trations overflowed  to  Mrs.  Scott,  until  the  sedate 
col  oners  wife  admitted  to  herself  that  no  such  pleas- 
ant voyage  had  fallen  to  her  lot  since  the  days  when 
she  had  started  for  India  on  her  wedding  journey. 
Weldon  had  the  consummate  tact  to  keep  the  taint 
of  the  filial  from  his  chivalry.  His  attentions  to 
Mrs.  Scott  and  Ethel  differed  in  degree,  but  not  in 
kind,  and  Mrs.  Scott  adored  him  accordingly. 

One  by  one,  the  languid  days  dropped  into  the 
past.  Neptune  had  duly  escorted  them  over  the 
Line,  to  the  boredom  of  the  first-class  passengers  and 
the  strident  mirth  of  the  rest  of  the  ship's  colony. 
Winter  was  already  behind  them,  and  the  late  De- 
cember days  took  on  more  and  more  of  the  guise  of 
summer,  as  the  log  marked  their  passing  to  the 
southward.  To  many  on  board,  the  idle  passage  was 
a  winter  holiday ;  but  to  Weldon  and  Carew  and  a 
dozen  more  stalwart  fellows,  those  quiet  days  were 
the  hush  before  the  breaking  of  the  storm.  Home, 
school,  the  university  were  behind  them  ;  before  them 
lay  the  crash  of  war.  And  afterwards?  Glory,  or 


16  On  the  Firing  Line 

death.  Their  healthy,  boyish  optimism  could  see  no 
third  alternative. 

For  ten  long  days,  Miss  Ophelia  Arthur  lay  prone 
in  her  berth.  Her  hymnal  and  her  Imitation  lay 
beside  her ;  but  she  read  less  than  she  pondered,  and 
she  invariably  pondered  with  her  eyes  closed  and  her 
mouth  ajar.  On  the  eleventh  day,  however,  she 
gathered  herself  together  and  went  on  deck.  With 
anxious  care  Weldon  tucked  the  rugs  about  her 
elderly  frame.  Then  he  exchanged  a  glance  with 
Ethel  and  together  they  sought  the  shelter  of  the 
ventilating  shaft. 

Nothing  shows  the  temperature  more  surely  than 
the  tint  of  the  gray  sea.  It  was  a  warm  gray,  that 
morning,  and  the  bowl-like  sky  above  was  gray  from 
the  horizon  far  towards  the  blue  zenith.  From  the 
other  end  of  the  ship,  they  could  hear  the  plaudits 
that  accompanied  an  impromptu  athletic  tournament ; 
but  the  inhabitants  of  the  nearest  chairs  were  reading 
or  dozing,  and  the  deck  about  them  was  very  still. 
Only  the  throbbing  of  the  mighty  screw  and  the  hiss 
of  the  cleft  waves  broke  the  hush. 

Out  of  the  hush,  Ethel  spoke  abruptly. 

M  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Weldon,  you  have  never  told 
me  what  brings  you  out  here."" 

He  had  been  sitting,  chin  on  his  fists,  staring  out 
across  the  gray,  foam-flecked  water.  Now  he  looked 
up  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  I  thought  you  knew.     The  war,  of  course." 


On  the  Firing  Line  17 

"  Yes ;  but  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  somewhere  on  the  firing  line.  Beyond  that 
I've  not  the  least  idea.11 

"  Where  is  your  regiment  now?  " 

"  I  have  n't  any." 

She  frowned  in  perplexity. 

"  I  think  I  don't  quite'  understand." 

"  I  mean  I  have  n't  enlisted  yet." 

"  But  your  commission  ?  "  she  urged. 

"  I  have  no  commission,  Miss  Dent." 

"  Not  —  any  commission  ! "  she  said  blankly. 

In  spite  of  himself,  he  laughed  at  her  tone. 

"  Certainly  not.     I  am  going  as  a  soldier." 

She  sat  staring  at  him  in  thoughtful  silence. 

"  But  you  are  a  gentleman,"  she  said  slowly  at 
length. 

Weldon's  mouth  twitched  at  the  corners. 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  assented. 

"  Then  how  can  you  go  as  soldier,  for  I  suppose 
you  mean  private  ?  " 

Dictated  by  generations-old  tradition,  the  question 
was  eloquent.  Weldon's  one  purpose,  however,  was 
to  combat  that  tradition  ;  and  he  answered  calmly, — 

«  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  —  because  it  is  n't  neat,"  she  responded 
unexpectedly. 

This  time,  Weldon  laughed  outright.  Trained  in 
the  wider,  more  open-air  school  of  Canadian  life,  he 
found  her  insular  point  of  view  distinctly  comic. 


18  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  I  have  a  portable  tub  somewhere  among  my  lug- 
gage," he  reassured  her. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No ;  that 's  not  what  I  mean.  But  you  won't 
be  thrown  with  men  of  your  own  class.  The  private 
is  a  distinct  race  ;  you  '11  find  him  unbearable,  when 
you  are  really  in  close  quarters  with  him.11 

Deliberately  Weldon  rose  and  stood  looking  down 
at  her.  His  lips  were  smiling ;  his  eyes  were  direct 
and  grave.  His  mother  could  have  told  the  girl,  just 
then,  that  some  one  had  touched  him  on  the  raw. 

"  Miss  Dent,""  he  asked  slowly ;  "  is  this  the  way 
you  cheer  on  the  men  ?  " 

She  flushed  under  his  rebuke  and,  for  a  moment, 
her  blue  eyes  showed  an  angry  light. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  referring  to  the  men 
whom  I  am  likely  to  know."" 

"  And  omitting  myself?  "  he  inquired. 

"You  are  the  exception  which  proves  the  rule," 
she  answered  a  little  shortly.  "Of  course,  I  wish 
you  all  good  ;  but  I  don't  see  how  it  is  to  be  gained, 
if  you  bury  yourself  in  the  ranks." 

"  It  may  depend  a  little  upon  what  you  mean  by 
good,"  he  returned,  with  a  dignity  which,  notwith- 
standing her  momentary  petulance,  won  her  full 
respect.  "  I  am  not  going  out  in  search  of  the  path 
to  a  generalship.  Fighting  is  n't  my  real  profession." 

"Then  what  are  you  going  for?"  she  demanded 
sharply. 


On  the  Firing  Line  19 

With  no  consciousness  of  dramatic  effect,  his  eyes 
turned  to  the  Union  Jack  fluttering  above  them. 

"  Because  I  could  n't  stay  away,"  he  answered 
simply.  "  From  Magersfontein  to  Nooitdedacht, 
the  pull  on  me  has  been  growing  stronger.  I  am 
not  needed  at  home  ;  I  can  shoot  a  little  and  ride  a 
good  deal.  I  am  taking  out  my  own  horse ;  I  shall 
draw  no  pay.  I  can  do  no  harm ;  and,  somewhere 
or  other,  I  may  do  a  little  good.  For  the  rest,  I 
prefer  the  ranks.  It 's  not  always  the  broadest  man 
who  lives  entirely  with  his  own  class.  For  a  while, 
I  am  willing  to  meet  some  one  outside.  As  soon  as 
I  get  to  Cape  Town,  I  shall  enlist  in  a  regiment  of 
horse,  put  on  the  khaki  and  learn  to  wind  myself  up 
in  my  putties.  Then  it  will  remain  to  be  seen 
whether  my  old  friends  will  accept  Trooper  Weldon 
on  their  list  of  acquaintances." 

"  One  of  them  will,"  the  girl  said  quickly.  "  If 
only  for  the  sake  of  novelty,  I  shall  be  glad  to  know 
a  man  in  the  ranks." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  No  novelty,  Miss  Dent.  I  know  any  number  of 
fellows  who  are  doing  the  same  thing.  We  can't  all 
be  officers ;  a  few  of  us  must  take  orders.  Out  in 
the  hunting  field,  we  say  it  is  the  thoroughbred  dog 
who  answers  to  call  most  quickly." 

She  ignored  his  last  words. 

"  And  you  don't  even  know  where  you  are  going  ?" 
she  asked. 


20  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  To  Cape  Town." 

"  But  after  that  ?  " 

"  To  my  banker.  After  that,  to  the  nearest 
recruiting  station."" 

"  So  you  '11  not  stop  in  Cape  Town  ? " 

Weldon's  quick  ear  caught  the  little  note  of 
regret  in  her  voice. 

"  Not  long.  Long  enough,  however,  to  pull  any 
latch-string  that  offers  itself  to  me." 

Her  eyes  dropped  to  the  shining  sea. 

"My  mother  will  offer  ours  to  you,*"  she  said 
quietly.  Then  she  added,  with  a  swift  flash  of  merri- 
ment, "  And  you  will  wish  to  see  Miss  Arthur  again."" 

Weldon  cast  a  mocking  glance  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  recumbent,  open-mouthed  form. 

**  Is  the  lady  going  to  stop  long  with  you  ?  "  he 
queried. 

"  Long  enough  to  recover  from  her  invalidism." 

"  To  judge  from  her  greeny-yellow  cast  of  counte- 
nance, that  may  take  some  time.  But  tell  me,  Miss 
Dent,  does  she  always  sleep  out  loud  like  this  ?  " 

"  Not  always.  It  usually  comes  when  she  is  taking 
what  she  calls  forty  winks.11 

"  Then  may  a  merciful  heaven  prevent  her  from 
taking  eighty,"  Weldon  observed  piously.  "  Still, 
the  sleeping  cat  — "" 

"  Fox,11  she  corrected  him  promptly. 

"  Fox  be  it,  then.  Miss  Arthur  seems  to  me  to 
be  feline,  rather  than  vulpine,  though.'1'' 


On  the  Firing  Line  21 

Bending  forward,  the  girl  studied  her  chaperon 
thoughtfully. 

"  She  really  is  n't  so  bad,  Mr.  Weldon.  She 
means  well.  It  is  only  that  I  don't  like  tight  frizzles 
and  a  hymn-book  in  combination.  People  should 
always  have  one  point  of  absolute  worldliness." 

"  Are  n't  fizzles  —  that  is  what  you  called  the 
thatch  over  her  eyebrows  ;  is  n't  it  ?  —  are  n't  they 
worldly  ?  " 

Ethel  Dent  laughed  with  the  consciousness  of  a 
woman's  superior  knowledge. 

"  It  depends  upon  the  season,"  she  replied  enig- 
matically, as  she  rose. 

It  was  five  days  later  that  Ethel  closed  and  locked 
her  steamer  trunk.  Leaving  Miss  Arthur  to  grapple 
alone  with  the  cabin  bags,  the  girl  went  out  on  deck. 
Regardless  of  the  glaring  sunshine  of  New  Year 
morning,  groups  of  people  were  dotted  along  the 
rail,  staring  up  at  the  flat  top  and  seamy  face  of 
cloud-capped  Table  Mountain.  In  the  very  midst 
of  a  knot  of  eager,  excited  men,  Weldon  was  leaning 
on  the  rail,  talking  so  earnestly  to  Carew  that  he 
was  quite  unconscious  of  the  girl,  twenty  paces  behind 
him.  She  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Then,  as  she 
walked  away  to  the  farther  end  of  the  deck,  she  told 
herself  that  Weldon  was  like  all  other  men,  regard- 
ful of  women  only  when  no  more  vital  interest  pre- 
sented itself.  Already  she  regretted  the  girlish 
vanity  which  had  dictated  the  choice  of  the  gown  in 


22  On  the  Firing  Line 

which  she  was  to  go  ashore.  For  all  the  young 
Canadian  was  likely  to  know  to  the  contrary,  she 
might  be  clad  in  a  calico  wrapper  and  a  blanket 
shawl,  rather  than  the  masterpiece  of  a  London 
tailor. 

The  Dunottar  Castle  was  forging  steadily  ahead 
through  the  blue  waters  of  Table  Bay.  Beyond  the 
bay,  Cape  Town  nestled  in  its  bed  of  living  green, 
backed  by  the  sinister  face  of  Table  Mountain,  and 
fringed  with  a  thicket  of  funnels  and  of  raking  masts. 
To  the  girl,  familiar  with  the  harbor  when  Cape 
Town  had  been  a  peaceful  seaport,  it  seemed  that 
the  navies  of  the  world  were  gathered  there  before 
her  eyes.  It  seemed  to  her,  too,  that  the  low,  squat 
town  never  looked  half  so  fair  as  it  did  now,  viewed 
from  a  softening  distance  and  ringed  about  with  its 
summer  setting  of  verdure. 

Already  the  docks  were  in  sight  and,  far  to  her 
left  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  curve  of  the  water 
front,  her  keen  eyes  could  make  out  the  roof  which, 
six  years  before,  she  had  learned  to  call  home.  She 
could  imagine  the  stir  and  excitement  in  that  home : 
the  controlled  eagerness  of  her  busy  father,  the 
gentle  flurry  of  her  invalid  mother,  and  the  tem- 
pestuous bulletins  issued  by  the  small  brother  whose 
occasional  letters,  full  of  incoherent  affection  and 
quaint  bits  of  orthography,  had  added  interest  to  the 
last  years  of  her  English  life.  One  and  all,  they 
were  loyally  intent  upon  her  coming.  And  she,  in- 


On  the  Firing  Line  23 

grate  that  she  was,  could  spare  thought  from  the 
dear  home  circle  to  waste  it  upon  the  forgetful  young 
.Canadian  who  was  talking  horse  and  politics  by  the 
rail. 

She  turned  sharply,  as  Weldon's  voice  fell  upon 
her  ears. 

"  Happy  New  Year,  Miss  Dent !  It  is  an  odd 
wish  to  be  giving,  with  the  mercury  at  ninety." 

With  her  London  gown,  she  had  also  donned  her 
London  manner,  and  her  answer  was  banal. 

"  But  none  the  less  welcome,  for  all  its  being  so 
warm.  May  I  return  it  ?  " 

He  laughed,  like  the  great,  overgrown  boy  that  he 
so  often  showed  himself. 

"  I  decline  to  take  it  back.  And  where  have  you 
been,  all  the  morning  ?  " 

"  Packing  my  steamer  trunk.  I  have  been  on 
deck  for  nearly  an  hour,  though." 

"I'm  sorry  I  missed  so  much  of  the  time.  I 
don't  see  why  I  did  n't  see  you,"  he  said  regretfully. 
"  I  was  over  there  by  the  rail  with  Carew  and  a  lot 
of  the  other  fellows,  watching  the  town  show  up.  It 
was  mighty  interesting,  too,  this  getting  one's  first 
glimpse  of  a  new  corner  of  the  earth." 

Most  men  would  have  seemed  penitent  over  their 
absorption  in  other  things.  Weldon  merely  ac- 
knowledged it  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  allowed  the 
girl  to  draw  her  own  conclusions.  She  drew  them 
accordingly.  At  first,  they  antagonized  her.  Later 


24  On  the  Firing  Line 

on,  she  admitted  their  justice.  Meanwhile,  she  kept 
her  momentary  antagonism  quite  to  herself,  as  she 
looked  up  into  the  face  of  her  companion,  an  earnest, 
manly  face,  in  spite  of  its  boyish  outlines. 

"  It  is  hard  for  me  to  realize  that  you  are  a  stranger 
here,""  she  answered  him.  "  All  the  way  out,  you 
have  given  the  impression  of  having  made  the  voyage 
any  number  of  times." 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"  In  the  way  of  getting  what  you  wish  in  an  ut- 
terly matter-of-course  fashion."  Her  laugh  belied 
her  London  exterior  and  belonged  to  the  broad  felt 
hat  and  the  soft  blouse  of  the  past  two  weeks. 

*'  That  is  the  one  compliment  I  most  value,  Miss 
Dent." 

"See  that  you  continue  to  live  up  to  it,  Mr. 
Weldon." 

For  an  instant,  they  faced  each  other,  a  merry  boy 
and  girl.  Then  Weldon's  lips  straightened  reso- 
lutely, and  he  bowed. 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  he  answered  slowly. 

Half  an  hour  later,  he  joined  her  at  the  gangway 
and  took  forcible  possession  of  her  hand  luggage. 

"Surely,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  objections; 
"you  will  let  me  do  you  this  one  last  little  ser- 
vice." 

"  Not  if  you  call  it  that,"  she  said  quietly.  "  Our 
acquaintance  is  only  just  beginning.  If  you  are  to 
be  in  Cape  Town  for  a  day  or  two,  come  and  let  my 


On  the  Firing  Line  25 

mother  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  me,  all  the 
way  out.11 

He  took  her  hand,  outstretched  in  farewell. 

u  Even  if  I  come  as  Trooper  Weldon  ? ""  he  asked 
with  a  smile. 

And  she  answered,  with  a  prophecy  of  whose  truth 
she  was  as  yet  in  ignorance,  — 

"  Trooper  Weldon  will  always  be  a  welcome  guest 
in  our  home.11 

Then  her  father  came  to  claim  her.  When  she 
emerged  from  his  welcoming  embrace,  she  saw  Wel- 
don, cap  in  hand,  bowing  to  her  from  what  appeared 
a  most  unseemly  distance.  The  next  moment,  he 
had  vanished  in  the  crowd. 


26  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  THREE 

ACCORDING  to  one's  individual  point  of  view, 
Cape  Town,  on  that  New  Year  morning  of 
nineteen  hundred  and  one,  was  either  a 
point  of  departure  for  the  front,  or  a  city  of  refuge 
for  the  sleek  and  portly  Uitlanders  who  thronged  the 
hotels  and  made  too  audible  mourning  for  their  im- 
periled possessions.  Viewed  in  either  light,  it  was 
hot,  crowded  and  unclean.  From  his  caricature  of 
a  hansom,  Weldon  registered  his  swift  impression 
that  he  wished  to  get  off  to  the  front  as  speedily  as 
possible.  The  hansom  contributed  to  this  impression 
no  less  than  did  the  city.  Out  of  a  multitude  of 
similar  vehicles,  he  had  chosen  this  for  its  name, 
painted  across  its  curving  front.  The  Lady  of  the 
Snows  had  obviously  been  christened  as  a  welcome  to 
the  scores  of  his  fellow  colonials  who  had  gone  that 
way  before ;  and  he  and  Carew  had  dashed  past 
Killarney  and  The  Scotch  Thistle,  to  take  possession 
of  its  padded  interior. 

It  was  almost  noon,  as  they  drove  through  the 
Dock  Gates,  past  the  Amsterdam  Battery,  and 
turned  eastward  towards  Adderley  Street  and  the 
Grand  Hotel.  It  was  nightfall  before  their  luggage 
was  safe  through  the  custom  house  and  in  their 


On  the  Firing  Line  27 

room.  Carew  eyed  his  boxes  askance.  Weldon 
attacked  the  straps  of  his  nearest  trunk. 

"  Wherefore  ? "  Carew  queried  languidly  from  the 
midst  of  a  haze  of  smoke. 

"  To  take  account  of  stock.11 

"  What 's  the  use  ?  " 

"  To  find  out  what  we  need,  of  course." 

"  But  we  don't  need  anything.  We  Ve  tobacco 
for  our  pipes  and  quinine  for  our  stomachs  and 
fuller's  earth  for  our  feet.  What  more  can  a  man 
need  ?  "  As  he  spoke,  Carew  hooked  his  toe  around 
a  second  chair,  drew  it  towards  him  and  promptly 
converted  it  into  a  foot-rest.  "  Besides,"  he  added 
tranquilly ;  "  to-morrow  is  Boxing  Day,  and  the 
bank  won't  be  open  until  the  day  after.  You  know 
you  can't  buy  anything  more  than  a  pink-bordered 
handkerchief  out  of  your  present  supplies." 

Weldon  laughed. 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  I  can  make  out  even  that,"  he 
said,  as  he  dived  into  the  trunk  and  pulled  out  a 
Klondyke  sleeping-bag. 

Carew  watched  him  from  between  half-closed 
lids. 

"  Going  beddy  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Confound  it,  no  !  I  thought  my  calling  kit  was 
in  there."  A  pair  of  dark  gray  blankets  landed  in 
the  corner  on  top  of  the  sleeping-bag. 

"That  looks  jolly  comfortable.  You'd  better 
bunk  in  there,  and  leave  the  bed  to  me,"  Carew 


28  On  the  Firing  Line 

advised  him.  "  You  're  in  the  wrong  trunk  for  your 
calling  clothes,  anyway.  What  under  heaven  do 
you  want  of  them,  Weldon  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  them  to  lie  all  in  a  heap." 

"  They  '11  lie  in  heaps  for  a  good  long  time,  before 
you  are  out  of  this  country ,"  Carew  predicted  cheer- 
fully. "  Moreover,  from  the  look  of  the  place,  you 
could  make  calls  in  either  pajamas  or  khaki,  and  it 
would  pass  muster.  I  saw  one  fellow,  this  noon,  in 
evening  clothes  and  a  collar  button.  Besides,  there 
is  n"t  anybody  for  us  to  call  on." 

Weldon  smiled  contentedly,  as  he  drew  out  a 
frock-coat  and  inspected  its  satin-faced  lapels. 

"  Not  for  you,  perhaps,"  he  observed  quietly. 

"  Oh,  I  see."  Carew  puffed  vigorously.  "  So  you 
have  a  bidding  to  call  upon  Miss  Dent." 

Weldon  dislodged  Carew's  feet  from  the  extra 
chair  and  utilized  the  chairback  as  a  temporary 
coat-rack. 

"  No ;  quite  the  contrary,"  he  replied.  "  I  am 
invited  to  call  upon  Miss  Ophelia  Arthur.  Now 
you  will  please  to  keep  quiet,  for  I  think  I  shall  go 
to  bed." 

In  silence,  Carew  watched  him  half  through  the 
process  of  undressing.  Then,  emptying  his  pipe  and 
snapping  open  its  case,  he  rose  and  faced  his  friend. 

"  Weldon,"  he  said  sententiously  ;  "  we  don't  care 
to  hang  around  this  place  longer  than  we  must ; 
and  we  shall  have  all  we  can  do  to  get  ourselves 


On  the  Firing  Line  29 

enlisted  and  our  horses  into  condition.  We  haven't 
time  for  much  else.  I  hope  you  will  remember  that 
you  came  out  here,  not  to  fuss  the  girls,  but  for 
the  fuss  with  the  Boers."" 

From  his  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  Weldon 
eyed  him  amicably. 

"  Don't  preach,  Carew,"  he  answered  coolly.  "  It 
doesn't  do  my  soul  any  good,  and  it  only  renders 
you  a  bore.  It  has  always  been  a  clause  of  my 
creed  that  two  good  things  are  better  than  one." 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  his  haste  to  unpack  his 
calling  clothes,  it  was  full  three  days  later  that 
Weldon  turned  his  face  eastward  in  search  of  the 
home  of  Ethel  Dent.  Moreover,  in  all  those  three 
days,  he  had  given  scarcely  a  thought  to  the  com- 
panion of  his  voyage.  Notwithstanding  his  first 
impressions,  Weldon  had  found  much  to  interest  him 
in  Cape  Town.  The  streets,  albeit  unlovely,  were 
full  of  novel  sights  and  the  patter  of  novel  tongues. 
Cape  carts  and  Kaffirs,  traction  engines  and  troopers, 
khaki  everywhere  and  yet  more  khaki,  and,  rising 
grimly  behind  it  all,  the  naked  face  of  Table 
Mountain  covered  with  its  cloth  of  clouds  !  It  was 
all  a  tumult  of  busy  change,  bounded  by  the  un- 
changing and  the  eternal.  For  one  entire  morning, 
Weldon  loitered  about  the  streets,  viewing  all  things 
with  his  straightforward  Canadian  gaze,  jostling  and 
jostled  by  turns.  War  had  ceased  to  be  a  myth, 
and,  of  a  sudden,  was  become  a  grim  reality ;  yet  in 


30  On  the  Firing  Line 

the  face  of  it  all  his  courage  never  faltered.  His 
sole  misgivings  concerned  themselves  with  the  con- 
trast between  the  seasoned  regulars  marching  to 
their  station,  and  his  boyish  self,  full  of  eager  enthu- 
siasm, but  trained  only  in  the  hunting  field,  the 
polo  ground  and  the  gymnasium.  Then,  gripping 
his  hope  in  both  hands,  he  resolutely  shouldered  his 
way  into  the  nearest  recruiting  office.  He  went  into 
the  office  as  Harvard  Weldon,  amateur  athlete  and 
society  darling  of  his  own  home  city.  He  came  out 
as  Trooper  Weldon  of  the  First  Regiment  of  Scottish 
Horse. 

He  spent  the  next  morning  in  sorting  over  his  mis- 
cellaneous luggage.  In  the  light  of  Cape  Town  and 
the  practical  advice  which  had  been  his  for  the  ask- 
ing, his  outfit  appeared  comically  complete.  Two 
thirds  of  it  must  be  stored  in  Cape  Town ;  of  the 
other  third,  one  full  half  must  be  left  with  the  negro 
servants  at  the  hotel.  His  toilet  fixtures  would 
have  been  adequate  for  a  Paris  season  ;  his  superflu- 
ous rugs  would  have  warmed  him  during  a  winter  on 
the  apex  of  the  North  Pole.  It  was  with  something 
between  a  smile  and  a  sigh  that  he  stowed  away  the 
greater  part  of  his  waistcoats  and  neckties,  in  com- 
pany with  the  silver-mounted  medicine  chest  by 
which  his  mother  had  set  such  store.  It  was  as 
Carew  had  said :  quinine  and  tobacco  were  the  main 
essentials. 


On  the  Firing  Line  31 

Then,  for  the  last  time  in  many  months,  he  ar- 
rayed himself  in  black  cloth  and  fine  linen,  chose  his 
stick  and  gloves  with  care,  and,  leaving  Adderley 
Street  behind  him,  turned  eastward  towards  the 
home  of  the  Dents. 

He  found  Ethel  on  the  broad  veranda,  bordered 
with  flower-boxes  and  overlooking  the  garden  and 
the  blue  waters  of  Table  Bay.  Dressed  in  a  thin 
white  gown  which,  to  Weldon's  mind,  was  curiously 
out  of  keeping  with  all  his  preconceived  notions  of 
January  weather,  she  rose  and  came  forward  to  greet 
him  at  the  top  of  the  steps. 

"  At  last,"  she  said  cordially,  while  she  gave  him 
her  hand.  "  I  began  to  fear  you  had  already  gone 
to  the  front." 

"  Not  without  seeing  you  again,"  he  answered,  as 
he  followed  her  back  to  the  bamboo  chairs  at  the 
shaded  western  end  of  the  veranda.  "  In  fact,  I  be- 
gan to  be  rather  afraid  I  should  never  see  the  front 
at  all." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked  quickly.  "  Has 
something  happened  since  I  saw  you  ?  " 

"A  great  deal  has  happened.  The  thing  I  re- 
ferred to  was  my  first  sight  of  British  regulars." 

Her  face  cleared. 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  good  deal,"  he  assured  her,  as  he  sat  down. 
"  I  came  out  here  with  all  sorts  of  high  notions  re- 
garding volunteers." 


32  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Well  ?  "  she  questioned  smilingly. 

"Well,  they  have  been  taken  out  of  me.  An 
untrained  man  isn't  worth  much  in  any  line,  least 
of  all  in  the  firing  line.  Still,  it  would  be  very  ig- 
nominious to  go  back  home  again." 

Her  eyes  swept  over  his  alert,  well-groomed  figure. 

"  And  when  do  you  start  for  the  front,  Trooper 
Weldon  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  I  start  at  all  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  you  are  sitting  opposite  me  ?  " 
she  asked  lightly.  "  Having  eyes,  I  use  them." 

"  And  they  tell  you  —  ?  "  he  responded. 

"  That  you  are  looking  content  with  life." 

The  laughter  died  out  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  am,"  he  said  gravely  ;  "  perfectly  content.  I 
am  enrolled  in  the  Scottish  Horse,  and  I  go  to- 
morrow." 

"  The  Scottish  Horse  ? "  she  asked  quickly. 
"  Which  squadron  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  it  ?  " 

"  A  little,"  she  answered  ;  "  but  that  little  is  good. 
Then  it  is  to  Maitland  that  you  are  going  ?  " 

"  Are  you  omniscient,  Miss  Dent  ?  " 

"  No  ;  merely  an  inquisitive  girl  who  remembers 
the  answers  to  the  questions  that  she  asks.  My 
father,  you  know,  is  in  the  thick  of  things,  and  it 
seems  to  me  I  have  met  half  the  British  army,  in 
the  four  days  I  have  been  at  home." 

"  Officers,  or  Tommies  ?  "  he  reminded  her. 


On  the  Firing  Line  33 

She  laughed  at  the  recollection  of  her  former 
prejudice. 

"  You  told  the  truth,  Mr.  Weldon.  One  of  the 
men  I  danced  with,  last  season,  is  riding  across 
Natal  in  the  same  squadron  with  his  groom.  In  my 
one  London  season,  I  met  only  officers.  Out  here,  I 
find  Lord  Thomas  turned  into  Tommy  Atkins,  and 
I  meet  him  every  day.  But,  aside  from  the  war, 
what  do  you  think  of  Cape  Town  ?  " 

"  What  would  I  think  of  Table  Mountain  without 
its  tablecloth  ? "  he  parried.  "  In  both  cases,  the 
two  things  seem  inseparable." 

"  Wait  till  you  know  the  place  better,  then,11  she 
advised  him.  "  It  really  does  have  a  life  of  its  own, 
apart  from  its  military  setting.11 

"I  am  afraid  there ""s  not  much  chance  of  my 
knowing  it  better,11  he  answered  a  little  regretfully. 

"  Maitland  is  only  three  miles  away,  and  you  Ve 
not  met  my  mother  yet,11  she  suggested. 

"  Is  she  at  home  now  ? "  Weldon  asked,  with  the 
conscious  air  of  a  man  suddenly  recalled  to  his  social 
duty. 

"  Not  this  afternoon.  She  has  taken  Miss  Arthur 
for  a  drive  through  Rondebosch.  That  is  quite  one 
of  the  things  to  do,  you  know.11 

"  I  did  n't  know.  Is  the  redoubtable  Miss  Arthur 
well?11 

The  dimple  beside  the  girl's  firm  lips  displayed 
itself  suddenly,  and  her  eyes  lighted. 


34  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Wonderfully.  Her  convalescence  has  been  re- 
markably short.  More  remarkable  still  is  the  fact  that 
she  has  neglected  to  mention  her  illness  to  any  one." 

"  How  soon  does  she  go  back  ?  " 

The  blue  eyes  met  his  eyes  in  frank  merriment. 

"  Not  until  she  has  finished  informing  my  mother 
of  the  present  London  code  of  chaperonage." 

Weldon  raised  his  brows. 

"  Then  I  shall  find  her  here,  when  I  come  back  at 
the  end  of  the  war." 

She  made  no  pretence  of  misunderstanding  him. 

"  Are  you  so  much  less  strict  in  Canada  ?  " 

"  We  are  —  different,"  he  confessed.  "  Miss  Ar- 
thur's lorgnette  would  be  impossible  with  us.  I 
don't  mean  the  lorgnette  itself;  but  the  acute  accent 
which  she  contrives  to  give  to  it.  Mrs.  Scott  is 
more  of  a  colonial  matron." 

'*  Dear  little  lady  !  Have  you  seen  her  since  she 
landed?" 

"  Once.  They  are  at  the  Mount  Nelson,  and 
Carew  and  I  called  on  them  there.  They  are  leav- 
ing for  De  Aar,  Monday." 

"  And  what  about  Mr.  Carew  ?  " 

"  He  goes  with  me  to  Maitland.  He  is  Trooper 
Carew  now." 

The  girl  sat  staring  thoughtfully  out  across  the 
lawn. 

"  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  soldier  he  will  make," 
she  said,  half  to  herself. 


On  the  Firing  Line  35 

Weldon  faced  her  sharply. 

"Why?11 

"  Because  life  is  an  embodied  joke  to  him." 

Weldon  rose  a  little  stiffly.  His  call  had  lasted 
its  allotted  time ;  nevertheless,  under  other  condi- 
tions, it  might  have  lasted  even  longer.  He  liked 
Ethel  Dent  absolutely ;  yet  now  and  then  she  had  a 
curious  fashion  of  antagonizing  him.  The  alter- 
nations of  her  cordial  moments  with  her  formal 
ones  were  no  more  marked  than  were  the  alterna- 
tions of  her  viewpoint.  As  a  rule,  she  looked  on 
life  with  the  impartial  eyes  of  a  healthy-minded  boy  ; 
occasionally,  however,  she  showed  herself  hidebound 
by  the  fetters  of  tradition,  and,  worst  of  all,  she 
wore  the  fetters  as  if  they  lay  loosely  upon  her.  At 
such  moments,  he  longed  acutely  to  impress  her  with 
his  own  point  of  view,  as  the  only  just  one  possible. 

"  I  think  perhaps  you  don't  fully  understand 
Carew,  Miss  Dent,"  he  said  courteously,  yet  with  a 
slight  accent  of  finality.  "  He  laughs  at  life  like  a 
child ;  but  he  lives  it  like  a  man.  I  have  known 
him  since  we  were  boys  together ;  I  have  never 
known  him  to  shirk  or  to  funk  a  difficult  point.  If 
the  Scottish  Horse  ever  sees  the  firing  line,  it  will 
hold  no  better  trooper  than  Harry  Carew." 

He  bowed  in  farewell  and  turned  away.  Looking 
after  him,  Ethel  Dent  told  herself  that  Weldon's 
simple  words  had  been  descriptive,  not  only  of  his 
friend,  but  of  his  loyal,  honest  self. 


36  On  the  Firing  Line 

Half-way  across  the  heart-shaped  bit  of  lawn 
enclosed  within  the  curve  of  the  drive,  Weldon  met 
another  guest  going  towards  the  steps.  There  was 
no  need  of  the  trim  uniform  of  khaki  serge  to  assure 
him  that  the  man  was  also  a  soldier.  The  starred 
shoulder  straps  were  needless  to  show  him  that  here 
was  one  born  to  command.  Glancing  up,  Weldon 
looked  into  a  pair  of  keen  blue  eyes  exactly  on  a 
level  with  his  own,  took  swift  note  of  the  full,  broad 
forehead,  of  the  black  lashes  contrasting  with  the 
yellow  hair  and  of  the  resolute  lines  of  the  shaven 
chin.  Then,  mindful  of  his  frock-coat  and  shining 
silk  hat,  he  repressed  his  inclination  to  salute,  and 
walked  steadily  on,  quite  unconscious  of  the  part  in 
his  life  which  the  stranger  was  destined  to  play, 
during  the  coming  months. 


On  the  Firing  Line  37 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

SITTING  in  the  lee  of  the  picket  fence  which 
bounded  Maitland  Camp  on  the  west,  Paddy 
the  cook  communed  with  himself,  and  Weldon 
and  Carew  communed  with  him. 

"  Oh,  it 's  long  and  long  yet  before  a  good  many 
of  these  ones  will  be  soldiers,"  he  observed,  with  a 
disrespectful  wave  of  his  thumb  towards  the  awkward 
squad  still  manoeuvering  its  way  about  over  the  bar- 
ren stretch  of  the  parade  ground.  "  They  ride  like 
tailors  squatting  on  their  press-boards,  and  they 
salute  like  a  parrot  scratching  his  head  with  his 
hind  paw.  A  soldier  is  like  a  poet,  born,  not 
made.111 

In  leisurely  fashion,  Weldon  stretched  himself  at 
full  length  and  drew  out  a  slender  pipe. 

"  Paddy,  if  you  keep  on,  1 11  fire  a  kopje  at  you,11 
he  threatened. 

Paddy  disdained  the  threat. 

"  Glory  be,  the  kopjes  be  riveted  down  on  the 
bottom  end  of  them  !  But  it 's  the  truth  I  'm  telling. 
Half  of  these  men  is  afraid  of  their  lives,  when 
they're  on  a  horse."" 

"  The  horses  of  South  Africa  are  divided  into  two 
classes,""  Carew  observed  sententiously  ;  "  the  Ameri- 


38  On  the  Firing  Line 

can  ones  that  merely  buck,  and  the  cross-eyed  Argen- 
tine ones  that  grin  at  you  like  a  Cheshire  cat,  after 
they  have  done  it.  Both  are  bad  for  the  nerves. 
Still,  I  'd  rather  be  respectfully  bucked,  than  bucked 
and  then  laughed  at,  after  the  catastrophe  occurs. 
Paddy,  my  knife  has  been  splitting  open  its  handle. 
What 's  to  be  done  about  it  ?  " 

«  Let 's  see." 

Bending  forward,  Carew  drew  the  black-handled 
knife  and  fork  from  the  coils  of  his  putties.  In  the 
orderly  surroundings  of  Maitland  Camp,  there  was 
no  especial  need  of  his  adopting  the  storage  methods 
of  the  trek ;  nevertheless,  he  had  taken  to  the  new 
idea  with  prompt  enthusiasm.  Up  to  that  time,  it 
had  never  occurred  to  him  to  bandage  his  legs  with 
khaki,  and  then  convert  the  bandages  into  a  species 
of  portable  sideboard. 

"Paddy,""  Weldon  remonstrated;  "don't  stop  to 
play  with  his  knife.  No  matter  if  it  is  cracked.  So 
is  he,  for  the  matter  of  that.  Go  and  tell  your 
menial  troop  to  remember  to  put  a  little  beef  in  the 
soup,  this  noon.  I  am  tired  of  sipping  warm  water 
and  onion  juice." 

"  What  time  is  it,  then  ?  " 

"  My  watch  says  eleven ;  but  my  stomach  declares 
it  is  half-past  two.  Trot  along,  there's  a  good 
Paddy.  And  don't  forget  to  tie  a  pink  string  to 
my  piece  of  meat,  when  you  give  it  to  the  orderly. 
Else  I  may  not  know  it 's  the  best  one." 


On  the  Firing  Line  39 

With  a  reluctant  yawn  and  a  glance  upward  to- 
wards the  sun,  Paddy  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  brushed 
himself  off  with  the  outspread  palms  of  his  stubby 
hands.  Then  he  turned  to  the  men  behind  him. 

"  Stick  your  fork  back  in  your  putties,  Mr.  Carew, 
and  1  11  send  you  a  knife  to  go  with  it.  As  long  as 
Paddy  manages  the  cooking  tent,  the  cracked  knives 
shall  go  to  the  dunderheads.  The  best  isn't  any  too 
good  for  them  as  rides  like  you  and  Mr.  Weldon, 
and  drinks  no  rum  at  all."" 

Weldon  eyed  him  mockingly. 

"And  gives  their  ration  of  rum  to  Paddy,""  he 
added.  "  Go  along,  man,  and  set  your  kettles  to 
boiling,  while  you  return  thanks  that  you  know  a 
good  thing  when  you  see  it.* 

"  Paddy  is  a  great  boy,"  Carew  observed,  as  the 
little  Irishman  saluted  them  in  farewell,  then  turned 
and  strolled  away  in  the  direction  of  his  quarters. 

"And,  what's  more,  a  most  outrageously  good 
cook,11  Weldon  assented.  "  If  Paddy's  ambition  to 
shoot  a  gun  should  ever  be  fulfilled,  England  might 
gain  a  soldier  ;  but  it  would  lose  a  chef  of  the  cordon 


"  If  I  were  to  choose,  I  'd  sacrifice  his  sense  of 
taste  for  the  sake  of  keeping  his  sense  of  humor,1' 
Carew  returned.  "  Not  even  war  can  subdue  Paddy." 

With  a  disdainful  gesture,  Weldon  pointed  out 
across  the  sun-baked  parade  ground  with  the  stem  of 
his  pipe. 


40  On  the  Firing  Line 

«  War !  This  ?  "  he  protested.  "  It  is  nothing  in 
this  world  but  a  Sunday  school  picnic." 

And  Carew,  as  his  eyes  followed  the  pointing  pipe- 
stem,  was  forced  to  give  his  assent. 

It  was  now  five  days  since,  with  scores  of  their 
mates,  Weldon  and  Carew  had  been  passed  from  their 
medical  examination  to  the  double  test  of  their  rid- 
ing and  their  shooting.  Elated  by  their  threefold 
recommendation,  they  had  lost  no  time  in  donning 
their  khaki  and  taking  up  their  quarters  under  the 
fraction  of  canvas  allotted  to  them.  The  days  that 
followed  were  busy  and  slid  past  with  a  certain 
monotony,  notwithstanding  their  varied  routine. 
From  morning  stables  at  seven  until  evening  stables 
at  six,  each  hour  held  its  duty,  for  in  that  regular, 
clock-marked  life,  recreation  was  counted  a  duty  just 
as  surely  as  were  the  daily  drills. 

Carew,  trained  on  the  football  field,  took  to  the 
foot  drill  as  a  duck  takes  to  water.  Weldon  was  in 
his  glory  on  mounted  parade.  One  summer  spent 
on  an  Alberta  ranch  had  taught  him  the  tricks  of 
the  broncho-buster,  and  five  o'clock  invariably  found 
him  pirouetting  across  the  parade  ground  on  the 
back  of  the  most  vicious  mount  to  be  found  within 
the  limits  of  Maitland.  More  than  once  there  had 
been  a  breathless  pause  while  the  entire  squadron 
had  waited  to  watch  the  killing  of  Trooper  Weldon  ; 
more  than  once  there  had  been  an  utterly  profane 
pause  while  the  officers  had  waited  for  Trooper 


On  the  Firing  Line  41 

Weldon  to  bring  his  bolting  steed  back  into  some 
semblance  of  alignment.  The  pause  always  ended 
with  Weldon  upright  in  his  saddle,  his  face  beaming 
with  jovial  smiles  and  his  horse  ranged  up  with 
mathematical  precision.  The  delays  were  by  no 
means  helpful  to  discipline.  Nevertheless,  the  officers 
yielded  to  the  inevitable  with  the  better  grace,  inas- 
much as  no  one  else  would  voluntarily  trust  life  and 
limb  to  the  vicious  beasts  in  which  Weldon's  soul 
delighted. 

Twice  already,  during  the  past  five  days,  Weldon 
had  handed  over  to  the  authorities  a  chastened  and 
obedient  pony,  and  had  made  petition  to  select 
a  fresh  and  untrammelled  spirit.  The  one  of  the 
afternoon  before  had  been  the  most  untrammelled  he 
had  as  yet  attempted.  The  contest  had  begun  with 
the  first  touch  of  the  saddle.  It  had  continued  with 
Weldon's  being  borne  across  the  camp  on  the  back  of 
a  little  gray  broncho  who  was  making  tentative  mo- 
tions towards  a  complete  handspring.  By  the  time 
the  pony  was  convinced  of  the  proper  function  of  her 
own  hind  legs,  Weldon  found  himself  being  driven 
from  the  door  of  the  cooking  tent  by  Paddy  and  a 
volley  of  potatoes.  The  broncho  surveyed  Paddy  with 
scorn,  rose  to  her  hind  legs  and  strolled  towards  the 
corner  of  the  camp  sacred  to  visitors.  There  she  de- 
livered herself  of  one  final,  mighty  buck.  When 
Weldon  regained  the  perpendicular,  he  found  himself 
directly  facing  the  merry,  admiring  eyes  of  Ethel 


42  On  the  Firing  Line 

Dent.  By  Ethel's  side,  mounted  on  a  huge  khaki- 
colored  horse,  sat  the  man  he  had  met,  only  the  week 
before,  in  the  driveway  of  the  Dents'  home. 

Scarlet  with  his  exertions,  grimly  aware  that  his 
sleeve  was  pulled  from  its  armhole  and  his  left  puttie 
was  strained  out  of  its  usual  compact  folds,  neverthe- 
less Weldon  saluted  her  smilingly  and,  his  mount 
well  in  hand,  galloped  off  in  search  of  his  squadron. 
That  night,  however,  his  clear  baritone  voice  was 
missing  from  the  usual  chorus  about  the  camp  fire  ; 
and,  as  he  thoughtfully  drained  his  tin  billy  of  coffee, 
next  morning,  he  was  revolving  in  mind  the  relative 
merits  of  his  banker  and  a  dead  mother-in-law,  as 
excuses  for  demanding  a  pass  to  town,  that  afternoon. 

However,  afternoon  found  him  moodily  riding 
about  the  camp.  His  body  was  on  a  subdued  gray 
broncho ;  his  mind  was  solely  upon  Ethel  and  her 
companion.  He  liked  the  girl  for  herself,  as  well  as 
for  the  fact  that,  in  this  remote  corner  of  the  world, 
she  represented  the  sole  bit  of  feminine  companion- 
ship which  is  the  rightful  heritage  of  every  son  of 
Eve.  True,  there  was  Miss  Arthur ;  but  Miss  Arthur 
was  antediluvian.  Under  these  conditions,  it  was 
galling  to  Weldon  to  see  Ethel  absorbed  by  a  com- 
rade who,  he  frankly  admitted  to  himself,  was  far  the 
more  personable  man  of  the  two.  And  the  girl's 
blue  eyes  had  laughed  up  into  the  eyes  of  the 
stranger  just  exactly  as,  two  short  weeks  before,  they 
had  laughed  up  into  his  own.  Then  the  little  gray 


On  the  Firing  Line  43 

broncho  jumped  cornerwise,  and  Weldon  had  diffi- 
culty in  impressing  upon  her  that  handsprings  were 
not  an  approved  form  of  cavalry  tactics.  Neverthe- 
less, he  did  it  with  a  word  of  apology.  For  the 
moment,  the  broncho  was  not  wholly  responsible  for 
her  return  to  evil  ways. 

Over  their  breakfast,  next  morning,  his  five  tent- 
mates  fell  to  catechising  him  as  to  his  pensive  mood, 
and  their  catechism  was  largely  intermingled  with 
chaff. 

"Paddy's  compliments,  and  roll  up  for  your 
tucker,""  the  mess  orderly  proclaimed,  as  he  came  into 
the  tent,  brandishing  a  coffee  pot  in  one  hand,  the 
frying  pan  in  the  other. 

Fork  in  hand,  Carew  nevertheless  paused  to  take 
exception  to  the  word. 

"  I  confess  I  can't  see  why  tucker^  when  it  is  sup- 
posed to  untuck  the  creases  of  us,"  he  observed. 
"  Hermit,  shall  I  serve  you  in  the  corner ;  or  will  you 
deign  to  join  us  about  the  festive  frying  pan?" 

"What's  the  matter  with  Weldon,  anyhow?" 
another  of  the  group  queried,  as  dispassionately  as  if 
the  subject  of  discussion  had  been  absent  in  Rho- 
desia. "  His  face  is  a  yard  long,  and  his  lips  hang 
down  in  the  slack  of  the  corners." 

"Brace  up,  man,  and  get  over  your  grouch,"  a 
third  adjured  him.  "You  are  worse  than  O'Brien 
was,  the  morning  after  he  was  shoved  in  kink.  Were 
you  in  Cape  Town,  last  night  ?  " 


44  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  Carew  put  in  hastily,  while  he 
buried  his  knife-blade  in  the  nearest  pot  of  jam. 
"  My  left  ear  can  prove  an  alibi  for  him.  From  taps 
till  midnight,  Weldon  discoursed  of  all  the  grewsome 
things  in  the  human  calendar."" 

The  smallest  of  the  group  tumed  himself  about 
and  peered  up  into  Weldon's  face. 

"  Homesick,  man  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  Sure,11  Weldon  replied  imperturbably. 

"  Oh.  Then  get  over  it.  Just  dream  of  the  days 
when  the  bronchos  cease  from  bucking  and  the 
Stringies  shoot  no  more.  Meanwhile,  if  you  could 
look  pleasant,  as  the  photographers  say,  it  would 
help  on  things  wonderfully.11 

But  the  mess  orderly  interrupted.  He  had  tidings 
to  impart,  and  they  burned  upon  his  tongue. 

"  Have  you  heard  about  Eaton-Hill  ?  "  he  asked, 
in  the  first  pause  that  offered  itself. 

Five  faces  turned  to  him  with  gratifying  expect- 
ancy. Eaton-Hill  had  come  out  on  the  Dunottar 
Castle.  He  was  known  to  them  all  as  the  acknowl- 
edged exquisite  of  the  entire  camp. 

"What  about  him?11 

"  C.  B.  I  met  him  coming  out  of  the  orderly 
room.11 

**  Hm !  Camp  scavenger.  Eaton-Hill  will  like 
that,11  Weldon  commented  dryly.  "  What  "s  the 
row  about?11 

"Cupid  apparently.     He  went   calling   in  Cape 


On  the  Firing  Line  45 

Town,  last  night,  without  leave,  stayed  till  past 
eleven  and  undertook  to  come  in  by  sea.  He 
shipped  in  a  leaky  boat  with  a  crew  composed  of 
one  Kaffir  boy ;  the  Kaffir  funked  the  surf;  they 
had  an  upset  and  Eaton-Hill  waked  up  the  picket 
by  the  fervor  of  his  swearing  at  the  half-drowned 
Kaffir." 

"  Poor  Eaton-Hill !  Both  his  morals  and  his 
clothes  must  have  suffered,"  Carew  suggested.  "  Wei- 
don,  take  warning.  Next  time  you  go  to  call  on 
Miss  Arthur,  start  early  and  be  sure  you  have  your 
pass  pinned  to  the  lining  of  your  coat." 

"  Who  is  Miss  Arthur  ?  "  demanded  the  chorus. 

Deliberately  Carew  helped  himself  to  the  last  of 
the  bacon.  Then  he  made  answer,  with  equal 
deliberation,  — 

"  Miss  Arthur  is  Weldon's  lawful  chaperon." 

At  four  o'clock,  that  afternoon,  Weldon  arose 
reluctantly  from  his  seat  on  the  western  end  of  the 
Dents1  veranda. 

"Parade  at  five,  Miss  Dent,  and  Maitland  Camp 
is  four  miles  away." 

Without  rising,  she  smiled  up  into  his  waiting  eyes. 

"  You  made  more  than  four  miles  an  hour,  when 
Captain  Frazer  and  I  were  watching  you,  the  other 
day,  Mr.  Weldon." 

"Yes,  twenty  at  least.  Still,  as  you  may  have 
noticed,  my  mount  does  n't  always  choose  the  straight- 
est  course.  If  she  elects  to  go  to  Maitland  by  way 


46  On  the  Firing  Line 

of  Durban,  it  will  take  me  all  of  the  hour  to  make 
the  journey." 

She  laughed  at  his  words.  Then  of  a  sudden  her 
face  grew  grave. 

"  They  \e  no  right  to  give  you  such  a  horse,  Mr. 
Weldon." 

"  Right  ?     Oh,  I  beg  pardon.     I  chose  it." 

"  Is  your  life  so  unhappy  ?  "  she  questioned,  in 
mocking  rebuke. 

"  It  is  no  suicidal  mania,  Miss  Dent,"  he  reassured 
her.  "  I  like  the  rush  and  excitement  of  it  all ;  but 
I  had  a  summer  on  a  ranch,  and  I  learned  the  trick 
of  sitting  tight  until  the  beast  tires  itself  out. 
Broncho-busting  is  only  a  concrete  form  of  philoso- 
phy, after  aH." 

"  And  must  you  really  go  ?"  she  asked  him. 

He  lingered  and  hesitated.  Then,  with  a  glance 
at  the  horse  fastened  to  a  post  in  the  drive  below,  he 
straightened  his  shoulders. 

"  I  must." 

She  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  Good  afternoon,  then." 

"  And  good  by,"  he  added. 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"  That  we  leave  Maitland  Camp  in  the  morning." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  showed  her 
regret.  "  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  Maitland  station.  Then  into  a  train.  Be- 
yond that,  I  do  not  know." 


On  the  Firing  Line  47 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  repeated ;  "  but  very  glad.  It 
is  time  you  were  doing  something.  I  know  you 
did  n't  take  all  this  journey  out  here  for  the  sake  of 
being  drilled  in  Maitland  Camp  until  the  end  of 
time.  We  shall  miss  you  ;  but  you  will  come  back 
to  us,  some  day,  and  tell  us  all  the  story  of  your 
deeds.  Success  to  you,  Trooper  Weldon  !  " 

She  gave  him  her  hand  ;  then  stood  looking  after 
him,  as  he  went  down  the  steps.  Once  in  the  saddle, 
he  turned  back  to  wave  a  farewell  to  the  tall  girl 
framed  in  the  arching  greenery  that  sheltered  the 
broad  veranda.  Then,  urging  on  his  horse,  he  went 
galloping  away,  his  boyish  face  turned  resolutely 
towards  the  front. 

Careless  of  the  oldtime  superstition,  the  girl 
watched  him  out  of  sight.  Then  slowly  she  moved 
back  to  their  deserted  corner  where  she  sat  long, 
her  elbows  on  the  arms  of  her  chair  and  her  chin 
resting  on  her  hands.  Her  eyes  were  held  steadily 
on  Table  Bay  ;  but  her  thoughts  followed  along  the 
road  to  Maitland  Camp  —  and  beyond. 


48  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THAT  January  had  brought  the  second 
irruption  of  Boers  into  Cape  Colony.  In 
reality,  they  were  near  Calvinia;  but,  by 
the  middle  of  the  month,  rumor  had  so  far  out- 
stripped fact  that  certain  refugee  Uitlanders  were 
ready  to  affirm  that  Table  Mountain  was  held  by  an 
invading  army  who  patrolled  the  summit,  coffee  pot 
in  one  hand  and  Bible  in  the  other.  Under  these 
conditions,  the  little  Dutch  church  at  Piquetberg 
Road  had  become,  in  all  truth,  the  abiding-place  of 
the  Church  Militant. 

In  deference  to  tradition,  the  altar  had  been 
promptly  pulled  down  and  its  ornaments  stowed 
away  to  be  safe  from  possible  desecration.  The 
altar  rail  was  left,  however,  and  Weldon  sat  leaning 
against  it,  his  eyes  vaguely  turned  upwards  to  the 
organ  in  the  farther  end  of  the  church.  From  the 
open  floor  between,  the  buzz  of  many  voices  and 
the  smoke  of  many  pipes  rose  to  the  roof;  from  the 
vestry  room  behind  him,  he  heard  the  cleaner-cut  ac- 
cent of  the  officers.  Outside,  above  the  light  spatter 
of  rain  on  the  windows,  he  could  hear  the  horses 
stamping  contentedly  in  the  leafy  avenue  without 
the  churchyard  wall,  and  the  brawl  of  the  stream 
beyond. 


On  the  Firing  Line  49 

The  twilight  lay  heavy  over  the  church,  heaviest 
of  all  over  the  distant  organ  gallery,  where  Weldon 
could  barely  make  out  a  single  figure  moving  towards 
the  bench.  There  was  a  rattle  of  stops,  a  tentative 
chord  or  two  and  then  a  few  notes  of  this  or  that 
melody,  as  if  the  player,  albeit  a  musician,  found 
himself  continually  thwarted  by  the  darkness  and 
the  absence  of  any  printed  notes. 

"  Who  is  up  there,  Weldon  ?  "  Carew  asked,  as  he 
peered  up  into  the  dimness. 

"  Shut  up ;  can't  you  ? "  Weldon  ordered  him 
abruptly. 

And  Carew  subsided,  just  as  the  unseen  organist, 
apparently  abandoning  his  more  ambitious  efforts, 
with  sure  touch  swept  into  the  familiar  harmonies 
of  the  Eventide  Hymn,  and  then,  still  with  his 
hymnal  in  mind,  jerked  out  the  dozen  stops  and  set 
the  air  rocking  to  the  steady  beat  of  Onward,  Chris- 
tian Soldiers. 

As  he  listened,  Weldon's  mind  went  backward  to 
his  last  Sunday  evening  in  the  cathedral  at  home. 
He  had  known  why  the  old  rector  had  chosen  that 
time-worn  hymn  for  a  recessional ;  he  could  still  feel 
the  stir  of  the  congregation  as  he  passed  them,  still 
see  the  scarlet  blot  of  color  made  by  his  own  hymnal 
against  his  stiffly  starched  cotta,  still  see  his  mother, 
erect  and  pale,  staring  at  him  with  a  resolute  bravery 
which  matched  his  own.  Since  then,  he  had  been 
inside  no  church  until  to-day.  It  was  a  far  cry  from 


50  On  the  Firing  Line 

worshipping  in  the  Gothic  cathedral  to  camping  in 
the  simple  little  Dutch  church ;  but  in  each  the  air 
was  vibrating  to  the  same  martial  hymn. 

Little  by  little,  the  groups  scattered  over  the  floor 
fell  into  silence.  Here  and  there,  one  took  up  the 
refrain,  now  humming  it  softly,  now  singing  it  with 
full  voice.  Then  the  refrain  died  away  ;  there  was 
an  instant's  hush,  an  instant's  modulation  ;  and,  as  a 
man,  the  crowd  beneath  rose  to  their  feet  and  stood, 
pipe  in  hand,  while  slowly,  steadily  from  the  organ 
came  rolling  down  the  familiar  notes  of  God  Save 
the  Queen. 

The  organ  was  closed  with  a  muffled  clatter,  the  or- 
ganist rose  and  slowly  came  down  to  the  floor.  With 
a  friendly  word  here  and  there,  he  passed  among  the 
troopers  who  saluted  him  and  then  settled  themselves 
again  for  comfort  and  their  pipes.  Last  of  all,  he 
paused  beside  Weldon. 

"  It  is  good  to  put  my  fingers  on  the  keys  again," 
he  said,  as  he  sat  down  for  a  moment  on  the  low  rail. 
"  We  had  an  organ  at  home,  and  I  miss  it.  I 
builded  better  than  I  knew,  when  I  chose  this  place 
for  our  barracks.  One  rarely  finds  an  organ  out 
here." 

Just  then  an  orderly  lighted  the  chancel  where 
they  stood.  The  organist  gave  a  slight  exclamation 
of  surprise. 

"  Is  n't  this  Trooper  Weldon? " 

The   speaker's    face    was   in   shadow.     Only  the 


On  the  Firing  Line  51 

starred  shoulder  straps  gave  Weldon  any  clue  to 
the  rank  of  his  companion. 

"  It  is,"  he  answered  briefly. 

"  Miss  Dent  has  spoken  of  you.  In  fact,  we  were 
together  at  Maitland  Camp,  last  week,  when  you 
tried  issues  with  the  little  gray  broncho." 

As  he  spoke,  he  moved  slightly,  and  the  light  fell 
full  upon  his  yellow  hair  and  on  his  blue  eyes,  dark 
and  fringed  with  long  black  lashes.  Weldon  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  smile  of  recognition. 

"  It  is  Captain  Frazer,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  am  congratulating  you  on  having  won 
your  way  into  Miss  Dent^s  good  graces.  She  tells  me 
you  were  most  thoughtful  for  her,  all  the  way  out." 

"  You  have  known  Miss  Dent  for  a  long  time  ?  " 
Weldon  queried. 

Captain  Frazer  answered  the  question  as  frankly 
as  it  was  asked.  For  the  moment,  they  were  man 
and  man.  In  a  moment  more,  they  could  resume 
their  formal  relations  of  captain  and  soldier. 

"  I  knew  her  well  in  England.  We  met  at  one  or 
two  house  parties,  a  year  ago  last  fall.  I  was  at  her 
coming-out  function,  too."  Then  he  rose.  "  I  shall 
see  you  again,"  he  added  formally.  "  Now  I  wish  to 
make  my  round  of  the  guards."  And,  turning,  he 
went  striding  away  towards  his  own  quarters  in  the 
vestry. 

Weldon  looked  after  him  thoughtfully.  Then  he 
uttered  terse  judgment. 


52  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Carew,  that 's  a  man,"  he  said. 

"  Quite  likely ,"^Carew  assented.  "  Women  don't 
usually  wear  khaki.  Shall  we  go  in  search  of 
Paddy?" 

They  found  him  smoking  tranquilly  by  the  church- 
yard gate.  The  old  stone  wall  towering  above  his 
head  made  good  shelter  from  the  drizzle;  and 
Paddy,  his  day's  labor  done,  was  leaning  back  at 
his  ease,  exchanging  adverse  compliments  with  the 
half-dozen  sentries  who  patrolled  the  wall.  He 
hailed  Weldon  with  cordiality. 

"Come  along  here,  little  Canuck,"  he  called. 
"  There 's  room  for  the  two  of  us  and  fine  smoking. 
Mr.  Carew  can  stay  out  in  the  rain.  It's  worth 
his  while,  even  then,  for  the  sake  of  watching  that 
pigeon-toed  cockney  in  the  oilskins,  him  as  is  stub- 
bing his  toes  in  the  sand,  this  blessed  minute." 

"  Shut  up,  Paddy,"  his  victim  retorted  hotly. 

"  It 's  you  that  should  shut  up  and  teach  the  toes 
of  you  to  walk  hushlike.  If  you  go  on  like  this, 
you  living  watchman's  rattle,  the  Boers  can  hear 
you,  clear  up  in  the  Transvaal.  Tell  me,  little  one, 
have  you  seen  your  captain  yet?" 

"  Captain  Frazer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Captain  Leo  Frazer,  sure  as  you  're  a 
trooper  of  C.  Squadron.  You're  in  luck,  boy. 
There 's  not  a  better  soldier  nor  a  finer  Christian, 
this  side  the  line.  Neptune  must  have  give  him  an 
extry  scrubbing,  when  he  come  over,  for  he 's  white 


On  the  Firing  Line  53 

he  is,  all  white.  Boys  ! "  Paddy  spoke  in  a  porten- 
tous whisper. 

"  Let  her  go,"  Weldon  advised  him  calmly. 

"  It  goes  without  letting.  Once  let  Paddy  get 
free  of  his  skillets,  once  let  him  have  a  rifle  in  place 
of  his  spoon,  and  you  '11  see  war.  The  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  is  a  spot  of  everlasting  peace.  All  I  ask  of 
Saint  Peter  is  a  place  in  front  of  a  line  of  Boers  and 
Captain  Frazer  beside  me  to  give  the  orders." 

"  Here  he  is,  Paddy.11  The  low-pitched  voice  was 
full  of  mirth.  "  He  orders  you  inside  your  tent  to 
plan  up  an  extra  good  breakfast.  Some  of  these 
fellows  must  volunteer  for  a  night  guard  out  in  the 
open,  and  they  will  need  a  feast,  when  they  come  in.11 

Weldon  rose  hastily. 

"At  your  service,  Captain,"  he  said,  just  as 
Paddy,  in  nowise  daunted  by  the  unexpected  pres- 
ence of  his  superior,  responded,  — 

"  Sure,  Captain,  I  put  a  condition  on  the  tail  of 
it.  If  you  '11  remember  back  a  little,  you  '11  see  that 
I  merely  said,  '  when  I  get  a  rifle  instead  of  a  spoon.' 
It's  a  sorry  day  for  an  able-bodied  man  to  be  tied 
to  a  frying  pan  all  his  days.  Now  and  then  he 
longs  to  leap  out  and  get  into  the  fire." 

Meanwhile,  half  of  the  men  inside  the  church 
were  volunteering  for  the  party  of  twenty  guards 
demanded  by  the  Captain.  It  was  a  surly  night, 
cold  and  raw  with  a  drizzling  rain.  Nevertheless, 
this  was  their  first  approach  to  anything  even  re- 


54  On  the  Firing  Line 

motely  resembling  active  service,  and  the  men  sought 
it  eagerly. 

By  dint  of  attaching  himself  to  the  Captain's 
elbow  and  assuming  that  his  going  was  an  under- 
stood thing,  Weldon  accomplished  his  aim.  Eleven 
o'clock  found  him,  wet  to  his  skin,  sneaking  on  the 
points  of  his  toes  through  the  thick  grass  beyond 
the  river,  with  nineteen  other  men  sneaking  at  his 
heels.  There  had  been  no  especial  pretext  of  Boers 
in  the  neighborhood  ;  tactical  thoroughness  merely 
demanded  a  guard  on  the  farther  side  of  the  river. 
Nevertheless,  the  enthusiastic  fellows  threw  them- 
selves into  the  game  with  the  same  spirit  with  which, 
twenty  years  before,  they  had  faced  the  danger  of  a 
runaway  by  the  tandem  of  rampant  hall  chairs.  A 
stray  Boer  or  two  would  have  made  an  interesting 
diversion;  but,  even  without  the  Boers,  a  night 
guard  in  the  open  possessed  its  own  interest. 

By  four  in  the  morning,  the  interest  had  waned 
perceptibly.  The  establishment  of  their  force  in  a 
convenient  hut  and  the  placing  of  pickets  had  served 
to  occupy  an  hour  or  so.  After  that,  nothing 
happened.  The  storm  was  increasing.  The  rain 
beat  ceaselessly  on  the  corrugated  iron  roof  of  their 
shelter  and  made  a  dreary  bass  accompaniment  to 
the  strident  tenor  of  the  rising  wind.  Inside  the 
hut  the  men  yawned  "and  whispered  together  by 
turns.  Carew's  best  jokes  began  to  fall  a  little  flat, 
and  Weldon  held  his  watch  to  his  ear,  to  assure 


On  the  Firing  Line  55 

himself  that  it  was  still  in  active  service.  Then 
hastily  he  thrust  the  watch  into  his  pocket,  gathered 
up  his  sleeping-bag  and  removed  himself  to  a  remote 
corner  of  the  hut,  with  Carew  and  a  dozen  more 
after  him. 

Not  even  the  most  enthusiastic  champion  of  South 
African  rights  can  affirm  that  the  South  African 
citizen  is  heedful  of  the  condition  of  his  lesser  build- 
ings. The  rising  wind  had  proved  too  much  for  the 
hut.  Its  joints  writhed  a  little,  seesawed  up  and 
down  a  little,  then  yawned  like  a  weary  old  man. 
From  a  dozen  points  above,  the  rain  came  pattering 
down,  seeking  with  unerring  instinct  that  precise 
spot  on  each  man's  back  where  skin  and  collar  meet. 

"  Whither  ?  "  Carew  queried,  as  Weldon  made  his 
fifth  move. 

"  Outside,  to  see  what  the  pickets  are  about.11 

"  But  it  rains,""  Carew  protested  lazily. 

"  So  I  observe.  Still,  I  'd  rather  take  it  outside 
as  it  comes,  instead  of  having  a  gutter  empty  itself 
on  me,  when  I  am  supposed  to  be  under  cover.11 

"  Better  stay  in,11  Carew  advised  him. 

"  No  use.  Sleep  is  out  of  the  question,  and  I  'd 
rather  be  moving  ;  it  is  less  monotonous.11 

"Go  along,  then,  and  look  out  for  Boers.  Can 
I  have  your  bag  ?  " 

"  You  Ye  too  wet ;  you  'd  soak  up  all  the  inside  of 
it.  If  I  am  to  get  a  chill,  I  "d  rather  do  it  from  my 
dampness  than  your  own.11 


56  On  the  Firing  Line 

Carew  laid  hands  on  the  bag. 

"  What  a  selfish  beast  you  are,  Weldon  ! "  he  ob- 
served tranquilly.  "  This  is  no  sack-race  ;  you  can't 
go  out  to  walk  in  your  bag.  In  fact,  it  takes  two 
to  make  a  navigable  pair.  Then  why  not  let  me 
have  it?" 

"  Why  did  n't  you  bring  your  own  ?  " 

Already  Carew  was  arranging  himself  in  his  new 
covering. 

"  I  mislaid  mine  in  Cape  Town,11  he  replied  sleepily. 
"  Now  please  go  away.  I  need  my  beauty  nap.11 

An  hour  later,  he  was  roused  by  a  sharp  reversal 
of  his  normal  position.  When  he  became  fully 
awake,  he  was  lying  in  a  pool  of  water  in  the  middle 
of  the  hut,  and  Weldon  was  in  possession  of  the 
blankets  and  bag. 

"What's  the  row?"  he  asked  thickly.  "I'm  a 
Canadian,  out  here  shooting  Boers.  Oh,  I  say  ! " 
And  he  was  on  his  feet,  saluting  the  man  at  Weldon's 
side. 

"  The  only  bag  in  the  squadron,  Captain  Frazer," 
Weldon  was  explaining.  "The  blankets  are  quite 
dry.  Roll  yourself  up,  and  you  will  be  warm  in  a 
few  minutes.1' 

Carew  surveyed  the  transfer  with  merry,  impartial 
eyes. 

"  Well,  I  like  that,"  he  said,  when  the  Captain's 
yellow  head  was  all  that  was  visible  above  the  en- 
circling cocoon.  "  I  thought  you  said  that  you  pre- 


On  the  Firing  Line  57 

ferred  to  catch  cold  from  your  own  wetness,  Weldon. 
I  was  merely  damp ;  this  man  is  a  sponge.11 

Before  Weldon  could  answer,  the  yellow  head 
turned,  and  the  blue  eyes  looked  up  into  Carew's 
eyes  laughingly. 

"  Merely  one  of  the  privileges  of  rank,  Carew,11 
the  Captain  observed  as  dryly  as  if  he  had  not  risen 
from  his  warm  bed  to  swim  the  river  and  walk  a 
mile  in  the  darkness  and  the  downpour,  in  order  to 
see  how  the  new  boys  were  getting  on. 


58  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  SIX 

CAPTAIN  LEO  FRAZER,  age  thirty  and 
an  Englishman,  had  a  trick  of  looking  Fate 
between  the  eyes  with  those  black-fringed 
blue  eyes  of  his,  of  accepting  its  gifts  with  gratitude, 
its  occasional  knocks  with  cheery  optimism.  At 
Rugby  he  had  ultimately  been  captain  of  the  school ; 
at  Oxford  he  had  been  of  equal  prowess  in  rowing 
and  football.  Since  taking  his  degree,  he  had  been 
a  successful  doctor  in  the  intervals  of  time  allowed 
him  by  his  membership  in  one  of  the  crack  regiments 
at  home.  He  had  never  seriously  contemplated  the 
possibility  of  active  service;  but  Colenso  had  been 
too  strong  a  pull  upon  him.  Leaving  some  scores  of 
sorrowing  patients  to  bemoan  him  as  already  dead, 
he  had  promptly  shipped  for  Cape  Town.  The  year 
of  grace  nineteen  hundred  had  found  him  on  the 
scene  at  most  of  its  exciting  events.  Where  Fate 
refused  to  take  him,  he  asserted  his  strong  hand  and 
took  Fate,  until  that  weary  lady  was  forced  to  go 
hopping  about  the  map  of  South  Africa  with  the 
agility  of  a  sand  flea. 

In  battle,  Frazer  was  always  in  the  thickest  spatter 
of  bullets,  where  he  bowed  himself  to  the  inevitable 
and  lay  "prone,  [though  with  his  face  turned  to  one 


On  the  Firing  Line  59 

side  to  give  free  passage  to  the  chaff  which  carried 
his  comrades  through  so  many  grim  hours.  In  the 
presence  of  danger,  his  humor  never  failed'him.  In 
those  sorrowful  hours  which  followed  the  cessation 
of  firing,  no  man  was  in  greater  demand  than  he. 
Many  a  brave  fellow  had  died  with  his  hand  shut 
fast  over  Frazer's  long,  slim  fingers ;  many  a  man's 
first,  awful  moments  in  hospital  had  been  soothed 
by  the  touch  of  those  same  firm,  slim  hands.  And 
in  the  singsongs  around  the  camp  fire,  or  at  the  mess 
table,  Frazer's  voice  was  always  heard,  no  matter  how 
great  the  tumult  of  a  moment  before. 

Like  many  another  of  his  countrymen,  Captain 
Frazer  had  learned  lessons  since  he  had  left  the  ship 
at  Cape  Town,  just  a  year  before.  He  had  come  out 
from  England,  trained  to  the  inflexibly  formal  tac- 
tics of  the  British  army.  Again  and  again  he  had 
seen  those  tactics  proved  of  no  avail  in  the  face  of 
an  invisible  enemy  and  an  almost  inexpugnable 
country.  He  had  learned  the  nerve-racking  tension 
of  being  exposed  to  a  storm  of  bullets  that  came 
apparently  from  nowhere  to  cut  down  the  British 
lines  as  the  hail  cuts  down  the  standing  grain ;  he 
had  learned  the  shock  of  seeing  the  level  veldt,  over 
which  he  was  marching,  burst  into  a  line  of  fire  at 
his  very  feet  from  a  spot  where  it  seemed  that  scarce 
a  dozen  men  could  lie  in  hiding,  to  say  nothing  of  a 
dozen  scores.  He  had  learned  that,  under  such  fire, 
a  man's  first  duty  was  to  drop  flat  on  his  face,  to 


60  On  the  Firing  Line 

push  up  a  tiny  breastwork  of  earth  and  to  fire  from 
behind  that  slender  shelter.  England  could  not 
afford  to  send  her  sons  over  seas  for  the  sake  of  hav- 
ing them  slaughtered  by  needless  obedience  to  the 
laws  of  martial  good  form.  Fighting  a  nation  of 
hunters,  they  too  must  adopt  the  methods  of  the 
hunt.  And,  most  of  all,  Captain  Frazer  had  learned 
the  imperative  need  of  mounted  riflemen.  Two 
months  before,  while  lying  up  at  Durban  until  his 
wrist  hadjiealed  from  a  Mauser  bullet,  he  had  come 
into  close  "contact  with  the  Marquis  of  Tullibardine. 
As  a  result  of  that  contact,  January  had  found  Cap- 
tain Frazer  in  Cape  Town,  ready  to  take  command 
of  the  newly  enlisted  Scottish  Horse. 

Now,  as  he  looked  over  his  force  at  Piquetberg 
Road,  he  was  congratulating  himself  that  his  men 
were  fit  for  service,  very  fit.  Frazer  knew  something 
of  men.  Experience  had  assured  him  that  these 
men  were  worth  training  and  his  months  of  service 
under  the  great  Field  Marshal  had  taught  him  that 
an  officer  could  be  a  man  among  his  men,  yet  lose 
not  one  jot  of  his  dignity.  Accordingly,  Frazer  set 
himself  to  the  task  in  hand.  By  the  time  he  had 
been  at  Piquetberg  Road  for  two  days,  he  knew  the 
name  and  face  of  every  man  in  his  squadron.  A 
week  later  he  could  tell  to  a  nicety  which  of  his 
men  were  engaged  to  girls  at  home,  which  of  them 
had  heard  of  one  Rudyard  Kipling,  and  which  of 
them  could  be  counted  upon  in  an  emergency.  The 


On  the  Firing  Line  61 

two  latter  counts  Weldon  filled  absolutely.  In  re- 
gard to  the  first,  Frazer  permitted  himself  a  moment 
of  acute  uneasiness.  It  had  been  in  a  spirit  of  un- 
mitigated joy  that  Frazer  had  met  Ethel  Dent  in 
Cape  Town,  on  the  morning  of  New  Year's  day.  In 
London  he  had  known  the  girl  just  well  enough  to 
admire  her  intensely,  not  well  enough,  however,  to 
have  found  out  that  she  had  any  permanent  connec- 
tion with  South  Africa.  His  joy  had  lasted  until  the 
hour  of  his  calling  upon  her,  three  days  later  ;  then 
it  had  received  a  sudden  check.  Ethel  had  been  as 
cordial  as  ever ;  nevertheless,  her  talk  had  been  full 
of  the  young  Canadian  whom  he  had  met  in  the 
drive.  Frazer  was  intensely  human.  After  a  year 
of  separation,  he  would  have  preferred  to  bound  the 
talk  by  the  experiences  of  their  two  selves. 

As  a  natural  consequence,  he  had  developed  a 
strong  prejudice  against  Weldon ;  but  Weldon,  all 
unconsciously,  had  done  much  to  remove  that  preju- 
dice. Not  every  man  could  manage  a  crazy,  bucking 
broncho  in  any  such  fashion  as  that ;  fewer  still  could 
come  out  of  the  scrimmage,  unhurt,  to  bow  to  a 
young  woman  with  a  cordiality  quite  untinged  with 
boyish  bravado.  That  day  at  Maitland,  Frazer  had 
registered  his  mental  approval  of  the  long-legged, 
lean  Canadian  with  his  keen  gray  eyes  and  his  wrists 
of  bronze.  He  had  registered  a  second  note  of 
approval,  that  first  night  at  Piquetberg  Road,  when 
Weldon,  with  no  unnecessary  words,  had  contrived 


62  On  the  Firing  Line 

to  impress  upon  the  mind  of  his  captain  that  he  was 
to  be  included  in  the  guard  to  cross  the  river. 
Totally  obedient  and  respectful,  Weldon  nevertheless 
had  given  the  impression  of  a  man  who  intended  to 
win  his  own  way.  Moreover,  the  direction  of  that 
way  appeared  to  be  straight  towards  the  front. 

Meanwhile,  peacefully  unconscious  of  this  diag- 
nosis, Weldon  was  sitting  on  the  river  bank,  prosa- 
ically occupied  in  scooping  out  the  remaining  taste 
left  in  an  almost-empty  jam  tin.  Beside  him,  Carew 
was  similarly  occupied.  Two  more  jam  tins  were 
between  them  and,  exactly  opposite  the  pair  of  jam 
tins,,  there  squatted  a  burly  Kaffir,  young,  alert  and 
crowned  with  a  thatch  of  hair  which  by  rights  should 
have  sprouted  from  the  back  of  a  sable  pig.  His 
mouth  was  slightly  open,  and  now  and  then  his 
tongue  licked  out,  like  the  tongue  of  an  eager  dog. 
Aside  from  his  hair,  his  costume  consisted  of  one 
black  sock  worn  in  lieu  of  muffler  and  a  worn  pair  of 
khaki  trousers. 

Behind  him,  the  river  caught  the  sunset  light  and 
turned  it  to  a  sheet  of  flowing  copper;  beyond 
stretched  the  open  country  in  long,  waving  lines  that 
ended  in  the  deep  yellow  band  of  the  afterglow. 
Above  them,  the  sky  was  blue ;  but  it  dropped  from 
the  blue  zenith  to  the  yellow  horizon  through  every 
imaginable  shade  of  emerald  and  topaz  until  all  other 
shades  lost  themselves  in  one  vivid  blaze  of  burnt 
orange.  It  had  been  a  day  of  intense  heat.  Al- 


On  the  Firing  Line  63 

ready,  however,  the  falling  twilight  and  the  inevitable 
eastward  shift  of  the  wind  had  brought  the  first  hint 
of  the  evening  chill. 

Weldon  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Hurry  up,  Carew,1'  he  adjured  his  companion. 
"  I  am  for  leaving  our  feast  and  hieing  us  back  to 
the  sanctuary." 

"  Right,  oh  ! "  Carew  raised  his  jam  tin  and  took 
careful  aim  at  a  rock  in  mid  stream. 

Instantly  the  Kaffir  hitched  forward. 

"  Mine  ?  "  he  demanded. 

Carew  stayed  his  arm. 

"What  for?" 

"  Eat.     Urn  good/1 

"  Nothing  in  there  but  atmosphere,  sonny.  You 
can  get  that  out  of  any  box.  Suppose  I  can  hit 
that  little  black  point,  Weldon  ?  " 

"  Not  if  I  know  it,'1  Weldon  said  coolly,  as  he 
tossed  his  own  tin  to  the  boy  and,  seizing  that  of 
Carew,  threw  it  after  its  mate.  "  Let  the  little  coon 
have  his  lick,  Carew.  It 's  not  pretty  to  watch  him 
go  at  it,  tongue  first ;  but  we  can't  all  be  Chester- 
fields. What  is  your  name,  sonny  ?  " 

The  boy  paused  with  suspended  tongue,  while  he 
rolled  the  great  whites  of  his  eyes  up  at  the  ques- 
tioner. Then,  the  whites  still  turned  upon  Weldon, 
he  took  one  more  hasty  lick. 

"  Kruger  Roberts,11  he  said  then,  detaching  him- 
self for  an  instant  from  his  treasure. 


64  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Oh,  I  infer  you  like  to  sit  on  fences  ? "  Weldon 
said  interrogatively. 

"Ya,  Boss." 

"  Which  side  do  you  intend  to  come  down  ?  " 

"Me  no  come  down,"  the  boy  answered  noncha- 
lantly, more  from  inherent  indifference  than  from  any 
comprehension  of  Weldon's  allegory. 

"  All  right.  Stop  where  you  are.  Meanwhile,  I 
think  I  should  call  you  Jamboree." 

"  Ya,  Boss."  The  face  vanished  from  sight  behind 
the  tilted  tin.  Then  it  reappeared,  and  a  huge 
finger  pointed  to  the  remaining  tins.  "  Mine,  too  ?  " 

But  already  the  boy  was  forgotten.  Weldon  was 
following  hard  on  the  heels  of  the  sentry  who  had 
dashed  through  the  gate  in  the  churchyard  wall. 

Four  o'clock  the  next  morning,  that  darkest  hour 
which,  by  its  very  darkness,  heralds  the  coming 
dawn,  found  C.  Squadron  moving  out  from  the  gray- 
walled  churchyard,  their  faces  set  towards  the  eastern 
mountains.  All  night  long  they  had  stood  under 
arms,  ready  for  the  attack  which  might  be  at  hand. 
By  dawn,  they  were  well  on  their  way  towards  the 
laager,  fifteen  miles  distant,  whence  had  come  the 
scouting  band  of  Boers  who,  for  two  days  past,  had 
made  leisurely  efforts  to  pick  off  their  scattered  senti- 
nels. At  the  head  of  the  little  troop  rode  Frazer. 
Behind  him  and  as  close  to  his  heels  as  military  law 
allowed,  came  Weldon,  mounted  on  the  same  little 
black  horse  which  had  so  often  carried  him  to  the 


On  the  Firing  Line  '35 

hunt  at  home.  Horse  and  rider  both  sniffed  the 
chilly  dawn  with  eager  anticipation.  Each  knew 
that  something  was  in  store  for  them ;  each  con- 
trived to  impress  upon  the  other  his  determination 
to  make  a  record,  whatever  happened.  For  one  short 
minute,  Weldon  let  his  strong  hand  rest  on  the 
satiny  neck.  He  could  feel  the  answering  pressure 
of  the  muscles  beneath  the  shining  skin.  That  was 
enough.  He  and  The  Nig  were  in  perfect  under- 
standing, one  with  another. 

"Weldon?11 

He  spurred  forward  to  the  Captain's  side  and 
saluted. 

"  In  the  flurry,  last  night,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that 
Miss  Dent  comes  to  Piquetberg  Road,  to-day.  She 
is  to  visit  a  cousin,  Miss  Mellen  ;  and  she  wished  me 
to  tell  you  that  she  hoped  you  could  find  time  to 
call  upon  her."" 

The  Captain  spoke  low,  his  eyes,  after  the  first 
moment,  steadily  fixed  upon  the  line  of  hills  before 
them.  Weldon  answered  in  the  same  low  tone. 

"  You  have  heard  from  Miss  Dent  ?  " 

"Yes.  A  note  came,  last  night.  She  is  to  be 
here  for  a  month,  while  her  uncle  is  in  England  on  a 
business  trip.  Mr.  Mellen  is  the  mayor.  You  prob- 
ably know  the  house.11 

"I  can  easily  find  it.  Please  tell  Miss  Dent  I 
shall  *be  sure  to  call  as  — " 

A  blinding  flash  ran  along  the  line  of  hills  close 
5 


66  On  the  Firing  Line 

in  the  foreground  where,  an  instant  before,  had  been 
only  empty  ground.  There  was  a  sharp  crackle,  a 
strident  hum  and  then  the  muffled  plop  of  bullets 
burying  themselves  in  the  earth  six  hundred  feet  in 
the  rear.  The  Nig  grew  taut  in  every  muscle ;  then 
she  edged  slowly  towards  the  huge  khaki-colored 
horse  that  bore  the  Captain,  and,  for  an  instant,  the 
two  muzzles  touched. 

"  Too  long  a  range,  man.  Try  it  again,"  Frazcr 
observed  coolly,  as  his  glance  swept  the  empty  land- 
scape, then,  turning,  swept  the  faces  of  his  men. 

That  last  sight  was  to  his  liking.  He  nodded  to 
himself  and  straightened  in  his  saddle,  while  the 
orders  dropped  from  his  lips,  swift,  clean-cut  and 
brooking  no  question  nor  delay.  Ten  men  went 
galloping  off  far  to  the  southward,  to  vanish  among 
the  foothills  and  reappear  on  the  pass  behind  the 
enemy,  while  a  dozen  Boers,  springing  up  from  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  followed  hard  on  their  heels. 
Ten  more  took  the  horses  and  fell  back  out  of  range 
of  the  firing ;  and  the  remainder  of  the  squadron 
stayed  in  their  places  and  helped  to  play  out  the 
game. 

It  was  all  quite  simple,  all  a  matter  of  course. 
Instead  of  the  fuss  and  fume  and  chaos  of  fighting, 
it  had  worked  itself  out  like  a  problem  in  mathe- 
matics, and  Weldon,  as  he  lay  on  the  ground  with 
his  Lee-Enfield  cuddled  into  the  curve  of  his  shoulder, 
felt  himself  reducing  it  to  a  pair  of  simultaneous 


On  the  Firing  Line  67 

equations  :  if  X  Britons  equal  Y  Boers  on  the  firing 
line,  and  V  Britons  draw  off  the  fire  of  W  Boers, 
then  how  many  Britons  —  But  there  came  a  second 
flash  and  a  second  spatter,  nearer,  this  time ;  and  he 
lost  his  mathematics  in  a  sudden  rush  of  bad  temper 
which  made  him  long  to  fly  at  the  invisible  foe 
and  beat  him  about  the  head  with  his  clubbed  rifle. 
It  was  no  especial  satisfaction  for  a  man  in  his  posi- 
tion to  climb  up  on  his  elbow  and  help  to  discharge 
a  volley  at  an  empty  landscape.  The  war  pictures 
he  had  been  prone  to  study  in  his  boyhood  had  been 
full  of  twisty -necked  prancing  horses  and  bright- 
coated  swaggering  men,  all  on  their  feet,  and  very 
hot  and  earnest.  Here  the  picture  was  made  up  of 
a  row  of  brown-clothed  forms  lying  flat  on  their 
stomachs  and,  far  before  them,  a  single  flat-topped 
hill  and  a  few  heaps  of  scattered  black  rocks.  And 
this  was  modern  war. 

There  came  a  third  blaze,  a  third  hum  of  Mauser 
bullets.  Then  he  heard  a  swift  intake  of  the  breath, 
followed  by  Carew's  voice,  the  drawling,  languid 
voice  which  Weldon  had  learned  to  associate  with 
moments  of  deep  excitement. 

"Say,  Weldon,  some  beggar  has  hit  me  in  the 
shoulder ! " 

Then  of  a  sudden  Weldon  realized  that  at  last  he 
knew  what  it  meant  to  be  under  fire. 


68  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

"   X^V  H,   truce  !     Truce ! "   Alice   Mellen   pro- 

f        1   tested.     "  Don't  talk  shop,  Cooee." 

^^-^  "  It 's  not  shop  ;  it  is  topics  of  the 
day,"  Ethel  responded  tranquilly.  "  Besides,  I  want 
to  hear  about  Mr.  Carew.  Is  he  dangerous  ?  " 

Weldon  laughed. 

"  No,  for  his  wound ;  yes,  for  his  temper.  One 
was  only  a  scratch ;  the  other  way,  he  was  horribly 
cut  up." 

"  Did  he  swear  ? "  Alice  queried,  while  she  dis- 
tributed lumps  of  sugar  among  the  cups. 

"Alice!" 

"Don't  pretend  to  be  shocked,  Cooee.  Even  if 
you  haven't  been  out  but  one  season,  you  ought 
to  know  what  happens  when  a  man  turns  testy. 
Frankly,  I  think  it  is  a  healthy  sign,  if  a  man  stops 
to  swear  when  he  is  hit.  It  shows  there  are  no 
morbid  secretions." 

"  You  prefer  superficial  outbreaks,  Miss  Mellen  ?  " 
Frazer  inquired,  as  he  handed  Ethel  her  cup. 

"  Yes.  They  are  far  less  likely  to  produce  morti- 
fication later  on,"  she  answered,  laughing  up  into  his 
steady  eyes.  "  What  do  you  do,  when  you  are  hit, 
Captain  Frazer?" 


On  the  Firing  Line  69 

"They  call  me  Lucky  Frazer,  you  know,"  he  replied. 
"I've  been  in  no  end  of  scrim  mages,  and  I  was  never 
hit  but  once." 

Bending  over,  Ethel  turned  back  the  cloth  and 
thumped  on  the  under  side  of  the  table. 

"  Unberufen  and  Absit  omen?  she  said  hastily. 
"Don't  tempt  Providence  too  far,  Captain  Frazer. 
At  my  coming-out  reception,  I  met  a  man  who 
boasted  that  he  always  broke  everything  within 
range,  from  hearts  to  china.  Ten  minutes  later,  he 
tripped  over  a  rug  and  fell  down  on  top  of  the  plate 
of  salad  he  was  bringing  me.  And  he  did  n't  break 
a  thing  — " 

"Except  his  own  record,"  Weldon  supplemented 
unexpectedly.  "I  suspect  he  also  broke  the  third 
commandment.  The  keeping  of  that  and  the  falling 
down  in  public  are  totally  incompatible." 

"  And  that  reminds  me,  you  were  going  to  tell  what 
Mr.  Carew  did  when  he  was  hit,"  Ethel  reminded 
him. 

"  I  never  tell  tales,  Miss  Dent." 

"  But,  really,  how  does  it  feel  to  be  under  fire  ?  " 
she  persisted. 

'*  Ask  Captain  Frazer.  He  has  had  more  experi- 
ence than  I." 

She  barely  turned  her  eyes  towards  Frazer's  face. 

"  He  is  talking  to  my  cousin  and  won't  hear. 
Were  you  frightened  ?  " 

"  No." 


70  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Truly  ?     But  you  would  n't  confess,  if  you  were."" 

He  blushed  at  the  mockery  in  her  tone. 

"  Yes.  Why  not  ?  I  expected  to  be  desperately 
afraid ;  but  I  was  only  desperately  angry." 

"At  what?" 

"Nothing.  That's  the  point.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  sight  to  be  angry  at.  Bullets  came  from  no- 
where in  a  pelting  shower.  Most  of  them  did  n't 
hit  anything;  there  was  no  cloud  from  which  the 
shower  could  come.  One  resented  it,  without  know- 
ing exactly  why.  It  was  being  the  big  fellow  who 
can't  hit  back  when  the  little  one  torments  him." 

"Cooee!" 

The  remonstrance  was  long-drawn  and  forceful. 
This  time,  Ethel  heeded. 

"  What  is  it,  Alice  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  that,  this  noon,  we  agreed  not 
to  mention  the  war  ?  These  men  fight  almost  with- 
out ceasing.  When  they  aren't  fighting,  they  do 
sentry  and  stables  and  things.  This  is  an  afternoon 
off  for  them.  We  really  must  talk  accordingly." 

"What  are  you  and  Captain  Frazer  talking 
about?" 

"  Cricket  and  seven-year  locusts." 

Ethel  held  out  her  empty  cup. 

"  Very  well.  Then  Mr.  Weldon  and  I  will  discuss 
mosquitoes  and  seven-day  Baptists.  No  sugar, 
please,  and  I  'd  like  another  of  those  snappy 
things." 


On  the  Firing  Line  71 

"  Does  that  mean  a  Mauser  ? "  Weldon  asked,  as 
he  brought  back  her  cup. 

"  No.  I  mean  biscuits,  not  cats.  But  you  sinned 
then.  However,  my  cousin  has  her  eye  upon  us,  so 
we  must  be  distinctly  frivolous.  Is  there  any  espe- 
cially peaceful  subject  you  would  like  to  discuss  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Please  explain  your  name." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  sudden  literalness. 

"  It  is  for  my  grandmother.  For  four  hundred 
years  there  has  been  an  Ethel  Dent  in  every 
generation." 

"  I  meant  the  other." 

"Oh,  Cooee?"  She  laughed.  "It  dates  from 
our  first  coming  out  here,  when  we  were  children. 
My  old  Kaffir  nurse  —  I  was  only  five,  that  first 
trip  —  used  to  call  me  so,  and  every  one  took  it  up. 
We  went  back  to  England,  after  a  few  weeks,  and 
the  name  was  dropped  ;  but  my  uncle  stayed  out 
here,  and  he  and  my  cousin  always  kept  the  old 
word." 

Weldon  stirred  his  tea  thoughtfully. 

"  I  rather  like  it,  do  you  know  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Surely,  you  don't  think  it  fits  me  ?  " 

His  eyes  moved  from  her  shining  hair  to  the  hem 
of  her  elaborate  white  gown.  Then  he  smiled  and 
shook  his  head. 

"  Not  to-day,  perhaps.  But  the  Miss  Dent  of 
the  Dunottar  Castle  —  " 

She  interrupted  him  a  little  abruptly. 


72  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Does  that  mean  I  am  two-sided  ?  " 

"  No ;  only  complex." 

She  smiled  in  gracious  response. 

"  You  did  that  very  well,  Mr.  Weldon,"  she  said, 
with  a  slight  accent  of  superiority  which  galled  him. 
Then,  before  he  could  reply,  she  changed  the  sub- 
ject, speaking  with  a  lowered  voice.  "  And  what  of 
the  Captain  ?  " 

It  suited  his  mood  not  to  understand  her. 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"Every  way.     What  do  you  think  of  him  ?** 

Then  she  drew  back,  abashed  by  the  fervor  of  the 
answer,  as  he  said  slowly,  — 

"  That  the  Creator  made  him,  and  then  broke  the 
pattern." 

The  little  pause  which  followed  caught  the  alert 
attention  of  the  hostess,  and  convinced  her  that  it 
was  time  to  shift  the  groups  to  another  combination. 
A  swift  gesture  summoned  Weldon  to  the  table, 
while  Frazer  dropped  into  his  vacant  chair.  Ethel 
met  the  Captain  with  only  a  half-concealed  eager- 
ness. This  was  not  the  first  time  that  a  consciously 
trivial  word  of  hers  had  been  crushed  out  of  life  by 
Weldon's  serious  dignity.  She  was  never  quite  able 
to  understand  his  mood  upon  such  occasions.  The 
man  was  no  prig.  At  times,  he  was  as  merry  as  a 
boy.  At  other  times,  he  showed  an  inflexible  seri- 
ousness which  left  her  with  the  vague  feeling  of  be- 
ing somehow  or  other  in  the  wrong.  The  result 


On  the  Firing  Line  73 

was  a  mood  of  pique,  rather  than  of  antagonism. 
Up  to  that  time,  Ethel  Dent  had  known  only  unre- 
served approval.  Weldon's  occasional  gravity,  to 
her  mind,  suggested  certain  reservations.  By  way 
of  overcoming  these  reservations,  she  focussed  her 
whole  attention  upon  Captain  Leo  Frazer.  Across 
the  table,  Weldon,  in  the  intervals  of  his  talk  with 
his  hostess,  could  hear  the  low  murmur  of  their 
absorbed  conversation. 

It  had  been  at  Ethel's  suggestion  that  the  tea- 
table  had  been  set,  that  hot  afternoon,  under  the 
trees  in  the  heart  of  the  garden.  Just  at  the  cross- 
ing of  two  broad  walks,  a  vine-roofed  kiosk  gave 
shelter  from  the  late  sunshine,  while  its  bamboo 
screens  were  half  raised  to  show  the  long  perspective 
of  garden  walk  and  distant  lawn.  Save  for  the 
orange  grove  at  the  left  and  the  ash-colored  leaves 
of  the  silver  wattle  above  them,  Weldon  could  al- 
most have  fancied  himself  in  England.  The  lawn 
with  its  conventional  tennis  court  was  essentially 
English ;  English,  too,  the  tray  with  its  fixtures. 
There,  however,  the  resemblance  stopped.  The 
ebony  handmaiden  who  brought  out  the  tray  was 
never  found  in  private  life  outside  the  limits  of  South 
Africa.  When  she  sought  foreign  countries,  it  was 
merely  as  a  denizen  of  a  midway  plaisance. 

"  Yes,  and  their  names  are  their  most  distinctive 
feature,"  Alice  assented  to  Weldon's  comment. 

"  More  than  their  mouths  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  flip- 


74  On  the  Firing  Line 

pant  recollection  of  Kruger  Roberts  engrossed  in  his 
jam  tin. 

"  At  least  as  much  so,"  she  responded,  laughing. 
"  You  notice  that  I  called  our  maid  Syb.  She  told 
me,  when  she  came,  that  her  old  master  named  her 
Sybarite.  I  understood  it,  the  next  day,  when  I 
found  her  snoring  on  the  drawing-room  sofa." 

During  the  time  of  her  answer,  Weldon  took  his 
opportunity  to  look  steadily  at  his  young  hostess. 
Up  to  the  moment  of  the  shifting  of  the  groups,  he 
had  been  too  fully  absorbed  in  the  pleasure  of  once 
more  meeting  Ethel  to  pay  much  heed  to  any  one 
else.  Now  he  turned  his  gray  eyes  upon  Alice  Mel- 
len,  partly  from  real  interest  in  her  personality  ; 
partly  to  counterbalance  the  rapt  attention  which 
Ethel  was  bestowing  upon  the  Captain.  She  had 
been  the  selfsame  Ethel,  a  bundle  of  contradictions 
that  attracted  him  at  one  moment  and  antagonized 
him  at  the  next.  He  liked  her  absolutely  ;  his  very 
liking  for  her  increased  the  sense  of  antagonism 
when,  for  the  instant,  she  departed  from  his  ideals 
of  what  she  ought  to  be.  And  yet,  Weldon  was 
candid  enough  to  admit  to  himself  that  she  departed 
from  them,  rather  than  fell  below  them.  Often  as 
sne  had  antagonized  him,  she  had  never  really  dis- 
appointed him. 

As  for  Alice  Mellen,  he  confessed  himself  sur- 
prised. Gathering  together  all  that  Ethel  had  ever 
told  him  of  her  cousin,  of  her  living  her  entire  life 


On  the  Firing  Line  75 

out  there  in  the  southern  end  of  South  Africa,  of 
her  desire  to  be  a  nurse,  he  had  pieced  together  an 
effigy  of  the  combined  traits  of  a  Hottentot  and  a 
vivandiere.  This  girl  answered  to  neither  descrip- 
tion. Her  clothes  and  her  manners  and  her  accent 
all  had  come,  albeit  with  slow  indirectness,  from 
London.  Not  only  would  she  and  her  gowns  pass 
muster  in  a  crowd  ;  but  furthermore  she  would  end 
by  being  the  focal  point  of  a  good  share  of  that 
crowd.  Nevertheless,  Weldon  found  it  impossible  to 
discover  her  most  distinctive  point.  Even  while  he 
sought  it,  he  wondered  to  himself  whether  this 
might  not  be  another  cousin  of  whom  he  had  never 
heard.  The  women  doctors  and  nurses  at  home 
wore  stout  shoes  and  had  pockets  let  in  at  the 
seams  of  their  frocks,  useful,  doubtless,  but  with 
an  unlovely  tendency  to  yawn  and  show  their  con- 
tents. This  girl  was  a  mere  fluff  of  pale  yellow 
organdie  which  brought  out  the  purplish  lights  in 
her  ink-black  hair. 

"  Did  you  have  the  heart  to  disturb  her  ? "  he 
asked,  reverting  to  the  subject  of  Syb's  nap. 

"  I  was  forced  to.  She  was  on  all  the  cushions,  and 
I  needed  one  for  myself.  She  took  it  in  good  part, 
though.  She  told  me  she  had  been  disturbed,  the 
night  before,  by  the  snoring  of  the  parrot,  two 
rooms  away.  As  a  result,  she  left  me  feeling  that 
the  apology  really  ought  to  come  from  me." 

"  Is  that  the  way  of  the  race  ?  "  Weldon  queried, 


76  On  the  Firing  Line 

as  he  set  down  his  empty  cup.  "  If  so,  you  make 
me  tremble." 

"Why?" 

"  Because,  without  in  the  least  intending  it,  I  have 
accumulated  a  boy." 

She  looked  up  suddenly. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how.  It  apparently  did  itself.  It 
was  the  day  before  we  went  out  to  be  fired  at,  and 
he  said  his  name  was  Kruger  Roberts,  and  I  fed  him 
some  empty  jam  tins." 

"  A  huge  black  boy  with  bristly  hair  ? "  she 
interpolated. 

"  Yes,  and  a  mouth  so  large  that  one  wonders  how 
his  face  can  hold  it  all." 

She  sat  up  alertly,  resting  her  folded  arms  on  the 
edge  of  the  table. 

"  This  becomes  interesting.  Kruger  Roberts  is 
Syb's  avowed  and  lawful  lover." 

Weldon  laughed. 

"Mine  also,  as  it  appears.  As  I  say,  I  fed  him 
jam  tins.  There  were  four  of  them,  and  they  were 
very  jam  my.  Then  we  became  interested  in  the 
Boers,  and  I  forgot  Kruger  Roberts.  When  I  came 
back,  yesterday  morning,  dead  tired  and  my  horse  all 
in  a  mess,  I  found  Kruger  Roberts  calmly  sitting  on 
my  extra  blankets,  cleaning  my  shoes  with  Paddy's 
best  dishcloth.  Paddy  was  in  a  wild  state  of  mutiny, 
and  told  me  that  that  chattering  baboon  had  vowed 


On  the  Firing  Line  77 

he  was  Trooper  Weldon's  boy.  Since  then,  I  have 
tried  in  vain  to  dislodge  him  ;  but  it  is  no  use.  The 
Nig  is  like  a  piece  of  satin,  and  it  is  all  I  can  do  to 
keep  my  compressed-paper  buttons  from  winking  de- 
fiance at  the  Boers  on  the  northern  edge  of  Sahara." 

Alice  Mellen  laughed  with  the  air  of  one  who 
understood  the  situation. 

"  You  builded  better  than  you  knew,  Mr.  Weldon, 
and  your  jam  tins  will  be  no  house  of  cards.  The 
Kaffirs  are  an  unaccountable  race  of  beings,  lazy  and 
good-natured.  Once  let  them  love  or  hate,  though, 
and  all  their  strength  goes  into  the  working  out  of 
the  feeling.  Kruger  Roberts  obviously  has  a  sweet 
tooth ;  the  day  may  come  when  your  enemies  may 
find  it  changed  to  a  poisoned  fang.  Do  you  want 
the  advice  of  one  who  knows  the  country  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  he  assented  heartily. 

"Then  keep  your  Kruger  Roberts,1'  she  said 
decisively. 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  with  him  ?" 

"  Let  him  do  for  you." 

"As  a  valet?  I've  never  been  used  to  such 
luxury,""  he  protested,  laughing. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  only  valet.  He  will  be  groom,  cook,  guide, 
interpreter  and,  whether  you  wish  it  or  not,  your 
chum.  Moreover,  he  will  do  it  all  with  the  face  of 
a  clown  and  the  manner  of  a  tricksy  monkey.  As  a 
panacea  for  the  blues,  you  will  find  him  invaluable." 


78  On  the  Firing  Line 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Then  she  added,  with  a 
complete  change  of  tone,  "  My  cousin  has  spoken 
of  you  so  often,  Mr.  Weldon." 

"  And  of  you,"  he  returned. 

The  directness  of  her  answer  pleased  him. 

"  Then  we  ought  to  start  as  friends,  and  not 
waste  time  over  mere  acquaintance." 

"  I  thought  there  were  no  acquaintances  out  here," 
he  answered  lightly.  "In  camp,  our  first  question 
is  :  Friend,  or  foe  ?  " 

"  In  the  towns,  we  have  every  grade  between. 
Often  the  same  person  slides  through  all  the  grades 
in  a  single  day.  But  you  have  n't  answered  me." 

His  eyes  met  her  eyes  frankly. 

"  About  the  friendship  ?  I  thought  that  was  n't 
necessary." 

"  Customary,  however,"  she  suggested,  with  a  smile. 

"  But,  as  I  say,  there  are  no  customs  here,"  he  re- 
torted. "  At  least,  I  should  have  said  so,  this  mom- 
ing.  Now  I  am  not  so  sure."  Then  he  laughed. 
"  I  Ve  bungled  that  horribly,  Miss  Mellen.  What  I 
meant  was  that  you  have  given  me  a  very  good 
time,  this  afternoon." 

"  Prove  it  by  coming  again,"  she  advised  him. 

"  If  I  may.  I  don't  wish  to  wear  out  my  welcome; 
but  one  has  n't  so  many  friends  in  South  Africa." 

"  What  about  Kruger  Roberts  ? "  she  reminded 
him. 

"  That  gives  me  two." 


On  the  Firing  Line  79 

"  And  Captain  Frazer  ?  " 

Weldon's  eyes  lighted. 

"  Some  day,  perhaps.  I  would  be  willing  to  wait 
for  that." 

Gravely  her  glance  roved  from  the  alert  young 
Canadian  at  her  side  to  the  older,  more  steadfast 
face  across  the  table.  Then  she  shook  her  head. 

"  You  will  not  have  to  wait  long,  Mr.  Weldon  ?  " 
she  said  quietly.  "  Captain  Frazer  spoke  of  you,  a 
week  ago.  I  have  known  him  for  months ;  I  know 
what,  with  him,  stands  for  enthusiasm." 

"  I  wish  you  might  be  a  true  prophet.  I  would 
honor  you,  even  here  in  your  own  garden.  For  the 
sake  of  Captain  Frazer's  regard,  I  would  give  up 
most  things,"  he  replied,  too  low  to  be  overheard  by 
the  couple  who  were  now  chaffing  each  other  above 
their  cooling  cups. 

Later  on,  he  wondered  a  little  how  far  the  apparent 
inconsequence  of  her  next  question  was  the  result  of 
chance. 

"  What  about  Cooee  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  voice  as 
low  as  his  own  had  been. 

He  hesitated.     Then  he  looked  up  at  her  steadily. 

"Miss  Mellen,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  he  an- 
swered gravely. 


80  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

E  ASTLY  shame  that  the  Boei%s 

buried  themselves  instead  of  the  guns ! " 
Carew  remarked,  as  he  wrestled  with  a 
tough  thong  of  bully  beef  which  yielded  to  his  jaws 
much  as  an  India-rubber  eraser  might  have  done. 

Without  making  any  pretence  of  extracting  nutri- 
ment from  his  own  ration,  Weldon  converted  it  into 
a  missile  and  hurled  it  straight  at  his  companion. 

"  There 's  this  difference,1'  he  returned  pithily  ;  "  a 
gun  is  a  good  enough  fellow  to  deserve  Christian 
burial.  Carew,  do  you  ever  yearn  for  the  flesh- 
pots  ?" 

Without  bringing  his  jaws  to  a  halt,  Carew  shook 
his  head. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  he  asked,  after  a  prolonged  interval. 

"  Yes,  if  they  could  be  brought  here ;  not  other- 
wise. I  like  the  game ;  but  I  also  like  a  little  more 
oats  mixed  with  my  fodder.  How  long  is  it  since  we 
had  a  square  meal  ?  " 

"  How  long  since  we  halted  in  that  pineapple 
grove,  coming  up  from  Durban  ?  "  Carew  retorted. 
"That  made  up  for  a  good  deal.  You  have  no 
cause  to  rebel,  though.  Between  Paddy  and  Kruger 
Bobs,  you  stand  in  for  all  the  tidbits  that  are 
going." 


On  the  Firing  Line  81 

With  a  mock  sigh,  Weldon  pointed  backward  over 
his  shoulder. 

"  But  unfortunately  Kruger  Bobs  and  The  Nig 
are  left  behind  in  the  shadow  of  Naauwpoorfs 
dreary  heights.  By  the  way,  Carew,  does  it  ever 
strike  you  that  these  Boers  make  a  lot  more  fuss  over 
their  spelling  than  they  do  over  their  pronuncia- 
tion ?  At  home,  we  'd  get  as  good  results  out  of 
dozens  less  letters." 

"  They  make  as  good  use  of  their  extra  letters  as 
they  do  of  their  extra  bullets,""  Carew  returned  tran- 
quilly. "  They  Ve  been  sniping,  all  the  morning 
long,  and  they  have  only  hit  a  man  and  a  quarter 
now." 

"  Which  was  the  quarter  ?  " 

Turning,  Carew  displayed  a  jagged  hole  in  his  left 
sleeve.  Weldon  laughed  unfeelingly. 

"  Can't  you  keep  out  of  range,  you  old  target  ? 
If  there  "s  a  bullet  coming  your  way,  it  "s  bound  to 
graze  you." 

"This  is  only  the  fourth.  Only  one  of  those 
really  meant  business.  Oh,  hang  it !  There  they 
go  again  !  "  he  burst  out,  as  a  distant  line  of  rocks 
crackled  explosively  and,  a  moment  later,  a  random 
bullet  opened  up  the  side  of  his  shoe. 

With  the  swift  change  of  occupation  to  which  the 
past  four  months  had  accustomed  them,  they  were 
soon  in  the  saddle  and  galloping  off  across  the  roll- 
ing veldt.  Before  them,  a  pair  of  guns  were  pound- 


82  On  the  Firing  Line 

ing  away  at  the  rocky  line  and  its  flanking  bushes, 
and  beyond,  over  the  crest  of  the  next  ridge,  scores 
of  thick-set,  burly  figures  were  racing  in  search  of 
shelter,  with  a  fragment  of  the  Scottish  Horse  in  hot 
pursuit. 

Neck  and  neck  in  the  vanguard  raced  Weldon  and 
Carew,  with  Captain  Frazer's  huge  khaki-colored 
horse  hard  on  their  heels.  To  Weldon,  the  next 
hour  was  one  of  fierce  excitement  and  pleasure. 
The  shriek  of  the  shells,  long  since  left  behind,  the 
flying  figures  before  them,  the  rise  and  fall  of  his 
own  gray  little  broncho  as  she  stretched  herself  to 
measure  the  interminable  veldt,  the  khaki-colored 
desert,  dotted  with  huge  black  rocks  and  shimmering 
with  the  heat  waves  which  rose  above  it  towards  the 
midday  sun :  his  pulses  tingled  and  his  head  throbbed 
with  the  glorious  rush  of  it  all. 

And  then  the  slouching  figures  were  met  by  other 
slouching  figures,  and  reluctantly  Weldon  drew  in 
his  horse,  as  the  halt  was  ordered.  Only  madness 
would  prolong  the  chase  against  such  heavy  odds. 
Mere  sanity  demanded  that  the  troopers  should  delay 
until  the  column  came  up.  The  action  must  wait, 
while  the  heliograph  flashed  its  call  for  help.  Wel- 
don grumbled  low  into  Carew^s  ear,  as  the  minutes 
dragged  themselves  along,  broken  only  by  indeter- 
minate volleys. 

"  I  have  exactly  five  rounds  left,"  he  said  at  length. 
"  I  believe  in  obedience,  Carew ;  but,  when  I  get  this 


On  the  Firing  Line  83 

used  up,  by  jingo,  1 11  pitch  into  those  fellows  on 
my  own  account." 

"Keep  cool,1'  Carew  advised  him  temperately. 
"  You  always  were  a  thriftless  fellow  ;  you  must  have 
been  wasting  your  fire.  Oh,  I  say,  what 's  the  row 
in  the  rear  ?  " 

"  The  column,  most  likely.  It 's  time,  too.  Those 
fellows  would  be  on  us  in  a  minute.  Ah  ha ! "" 
And  Weldon  drew  a  quick  breath  of  admiration,  as 
the  guns  came  up  at  the  gallop  under  the  watchful 
eye  of  the  Imperial  Yeomanry. 

Once  in  position  on  a  rise  to  the  left,  quickly  the 
guns  unlimbered  and  opened  fire,  while  the  sergeants 
gathered  around  the  boxes  of  spare  cartridges  on  the 
ground  beside  the  panting  ammunition  horse.  Then 
at  last  came  the  order  for  the  advance,  the  order  so 
eagerly  awaited  by  Weldon,  maddened  by  his  long 
exposure  to  the  bullets  of  his  unseen  foe.  In  ex- 
tended order,  the  squadrons  galloped  forward  until 
their  goal  was  a  scant  five  hundred  yards  away,  when 
of  a  sudden  a  murderous  fire  broke  out  from  the 
rocks  in  front  of  them,  emptying  many  a  saddle  and 
dropping  many  a  horse.  Under  such  conditions, 
safety  lay  only  in  an  unswerving  charge. 

Close  on  their  leaders'  heels,  the  troopers  spurred 
forward  and,  revolver  in  right  hand,  rifle  in  left,  they 
charged  over  the  remaining  bit  of  ground  and  into 
the  midst  of  the  Boer  position.  Briton  and  Boer 
met,  face  to  face.  Revolvers  cracked ;  Boers  dropped. 


84  On  the  Firing  Line 

Mausers  crashed;  Britons  fell.  And  then,  through 
and  over,  the  British  charge  had  passed. 

Even  then  Weldon  found  no  place  for  pause. 
From  behind  the  Boer  position,  a  band  of  their 
reinforcements  came  galloping  down  upon  him. 
Caught  between  the  two  lines,  the  squadrons  wheeled 
about,  fell  again  upon  the  broken  enemy,  dashed 
through  them  and,  amid  the  leaden  hail,  retired 
upon  their  own  guns.  And  now  once  more  the 
gunners  could  reopen  fire,  and  the  shells  dropped 
thick  and  fast.  The  moment  for  a  general  advance 
had  come.  In  open  order,  a  thousand  men  dashed 
forward  and  reached  the  ridge,  only  to  see  the  retir- 
ing foe  galloping  away  in  all  directions  across  the 
open  veldt.  A  halt  was  ordered,  to  rest  the  winded 
mounts.  Pickets  were  thrown  out  on  front  and 
flank,  while  the  British  awaited  their  approaching 
convoy.  That  night,  the  column  rested  upon  the 
veldt  at  Vlaakfontein. 

After  the  rush  of  the  day,  its  hope  and  its  suc- 
ceeding disappointment,  Weldon  was  long  in  falling 
asleep.  Carew  was  out  on  picket ;  Captain  Frazer, 
coat  off  and  sleeves  rolled  to  his  shoulders,  was  busy 
among  the  wounded,  and  Weldon  had  cared  to  make 
few  other  close  friends  in  the  squadron.  Around 
him,  he  could  hear  the  murmurs  of  other  sleepless 
ones ;  but  he  lay  silent,  his  arms  under  his  head,  his 
face  turned  upward  to  the  shining  perspective  of  the 
stars.  In  similar  perspective  there  ranged  them- 


On  the  Firing  Line  85 

selves  before  his  mind  the  events  of  the  past  twelve 
weeks. 

Already  the  month  at  Piquetberg  Road  seemed  a 
chapter  out  of  another  volume.  It  had  culminated 
in  that  languid  afternoon  spent  around  the  tea-table 
under  the  wattle  tree  in  the  garden,  culminated  there 
and  also  ended  there.  With  the  unexpectedness 
that  marks  all  things  in  a  time  of  war,  the  next 
noon  found  him  steaming  across  the  Cape  Flats, 
with  Maitland  in  sight.  Two  days  later,  they  were 
loaded  on  an  empty  hospital  ship  returning  to  Dur- 
ban. Piquetberg  Road  was  child's  play  now,  for 
the  front  was  almost  in  sight.  The  voyage  had  been 
beastly ;  but  after  it  had  come  the  real  beginning  of 
things.  Natal,  in  those  days  of  late  February,  had 
seemed  deserving  of  its  name,  a  true  Garden  of 
Africa.  The  crossing  was  now  a  memory  of  heavy 
grades,  of  verdant  country,  of  ripened  fruits.  There 
had  been  the  week's  delay  at  Pietermaritzburg  where 
they  had  tasted  a  bit  of  civilization  in  the  intervals 
of  completing  their  outfits ;  there  had  been  the  brief 
stop  at  Ladysmith,  already  recovered  from  her  hard- 
ships of  the  year  before,  then  the  crossing  the  border 
into  the  Transvaal  where  the  verdure  slowly  vanished 
to  give  place  to  the  dreary  wastes  of  red-brown  veldt. 
At  Johannesburg,  he  had  manufactured  an  excuse 
for  a  long  letter  to  Ethel  who  — 

"  Show  a  leg  there  !  " 

The  sergeant's  voice  at  his  ear  called  him  back  to 


86  On  the  Firing  Line 

the  realities  of  life.  He  sat  up  as  alertly  as  if  he 
had  slept  upon  eider-down. 

By  eight  o'clock,  Weldon  was  out  on  the  veldt, 
two  miles  from  camp.  Before  him,  a  force  of  Yeo- 
manry was  guarding  the  two  guns  ;  around  him,  a 
detail  from  his  own  squadron  protected  the  flank  on 
the  right.  And,  still  farther  to  the  right,  a  cloud  of 
yellowish  smoke  rose  skyward  across  the  yellower  sun- 
shine. Then,  of  a  sudden,  out  from  the  heart  of  the 
wall  of  smoke  came  a  muffled  thud  and  roar,  con- 
fused at  first,  growing  strident  and  more  detached 
until,  sweeping  from  the  haze  of  smoke,  five  score 
Boer  horsemen  rode  in  a  bolt-like  rush,  fierce  and 
uncheckable.  Without  swerving  to  right  or  left, 
they  charged  straight  towards  the  Yeomanry  drawn 
up  beside  the  guns,  drove  them  back  and  shot  down 
the  gunners  almost  to  a  man.  An  instant  later,  the 
guns  were  whirled  about  and  trained  upon  their 
quondam  owners. 

From  over  his  breakfast,  that  morning,  the  Gen- 
eral raised  his  head  to  listen  to  the  booming  of  the 
fifteen-pounders.  No  need  to  tell  him  that  heavy 
fighting  had  begun.  His  experienced  ear  had  taught 
him  that  magazine  firing  meant  business.  His  hand 
went  in  search  of  his  field-glasses. 

"General,  the  enemy  have  captured  the  guns. 
The  Major  asks  for  assistance  to  retake  them." 

The  General  lowered  his  glasses.  Covered  with 
dust,  and  breathless,  Weldon  was  before  him. 


On  the  Firing  Line  87 

"  Mount  every  available  man,  and  gallop  to  the 
scene  of  action  ! " 

Orderlies  carried  the  command  to  the  different 
regiments.  Before  the  mounted  men  could  start,  the 
infantry  were  half-way  to  the  guns.  But  already 
shells  were  falling  into  the  camp,  telling  every  man 
that  the  guns  were  in  the  hands  of  the  Boers. 

In  the  forefront  of  the  remainder  of  his  squadron, 
Weldon  found  himself  borne  onward  in  the  rush, 
straight  from  the  camp  to  the  right  flank  of  the  guns. 
The  broncho's  swinging  trot  had  long  since  changed 
to  a  gallop,  and  her  eyes  were  flashing  with  the 
wicked  light  of  her  old,  unbroken  days,  as  she  went 
tearing  across  the  sun-baked  veldt,  up  and  down  over 
the  rises  and  through  the  rare  bits  of  thicket  at  a 
pace  which  Weldon  would  have  been  powerless  to 
check.  He  had  no  mind  to  check  it.  The  crisp  air, 
full  of  ozone  and  warmed  by  the  sun,  set  his  cheeks 
to  tingling  with  its  impact.  A  true  rider,  he  let  his 
mood  follow  the  temper  of  his  horse  and,  like  a  pair 
of  wild  things,  they  went  bolting  away  far  towards 
the  head  of  the  squadrons. 

And  always  the  firing  of  the  guns  grew  nearer 
and  faster  and  more  murderous. 

He  took  no  note  of  passing  moments,  none  of  the 
miles  he  had  ridden  during  the  past  days.  These 
counted  for  naught,  while,  with  photographic  dis- 
tinctness, the  picture  before  him  fixed  itself  sharply 
in  his  mind :  the  dust-colored  troops  on  the  dusty 


88  On  the  Firing  Line 

veldt,  the  brown-painted  guns,  the  distant  line  of  the 
enemy's  fire  and,  far  to  the  eastward,  the  wall  of 
smoke  which  was  fast  sweeping  towards  them  from 
the  acres  of  burning  veldt. 

"  Captain  Frazer,  the  General  orders  you  to  take 
up  your  position  in  the  kraal  on  the  extreme  right, 
and  to  hold  it  at  any  cost." 

From  his  place  at  the  Captain's  side,  Weldon 
glanced  at  the  orderly,  then,  turning,  looked  across 
the  veldt  to  the  four  gray  walls  surrounding  the 
clump  of  trees  a  mile  away.  His  hand  tightened  on 
the  curb,  and  he  straightened  in  the  saddle,  as  the 
Captain  led  the  way  into  the  purgatory  beyond,  an 
orderly  purgatory,  but  crossed  with  leaden  lines  of 
shot  and  shell. 

At  such  moments,  the  brain  ceases  to  act  cohe- 
rently. When  Weldon  came  to  himself,  he  was 
kneeling  behind  the  old  gray  wall,  revolver  in  hand, 
firing  full  in  the  faces  of  the  Boer  horsemen,  scarce 
fifteen  feet  away.  Carew,  his  right  foot  dangling, 
had  been  hustled  to  the  rear  of  the  kraal  where  the 
gray  broncho  and  her  mates  were  in  comparative 
shelter. 

"Weldon?" 

He  looked  up  in  a  half-dazed  fashion.  The  wall 
of  smoke  was  already  shutting  down  about  the  re- 
treating Boers.  Beside  him  stood  the  Captain,  his 
yellow  hair  clinging  to  his  dripping  face,  his  blue 
eyes,  under  their  fringe  of  black  lashes,  glittering 


On  the  Firing  Line  89 

like  polished  gems.  Coated  as  he  was  with  dust  and 
sweat,  his  clothing  torn  and  spotted  with  the  fray, 
he  looked  ten  times  more  the  gallant  gentleman, 
even,  than  when  he  had  met  Weldon  in  the  heart- 
shaped  bit  of  lawn  encircled  by  the  Dents1  driveway. 

Now  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Splendidly  done,  old  man  !  One  does  n't  forget 
such  things." 


90  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  NINE 

CAPTAIN  FRAZER  had  scarcely  finished 
speaking,  when  the  voice  of  the  General 
sounded  in  their  ears. 

"A  plucky  attack  and  a  plucky  defeat,  Captain 
Frazer.  Kemp  is  a  man  worth  fighting.  You  are 
not  wounded  ? " 

"  Thanks  to  Trooper  Weldon,"  the  Captain  told 
him,  with  a  smile. 

The  General's  keen  glance  included  them  both. 

"  Good !  And  now  can  you  spare  me  a  trusty 
man  ?  One  who  can  ride  ?  I  must  have  some  de- 
spatches at  Krugersdorp  before  midnight.  I  should 
like  some  one  from  your  squadron." 

The  eyes  of  Captain  Frazer  and  Weldon  met. 
Again  the  General's  keen  glance  was  on  them  both  ; 
then  it  concentrated  itself  upon  the  younger  man. 

"  I  am  ready,"  he  answered  to  its  unspoken  question. 

"  You  are  sure  you  are  fit  ?  It  is  forty  miles,  and 
the  rain  will  be  on  us  inside  of  an  hour."" 

"  It  makes  no  difference." 

As  he  spoke,  Weldon  felt  himself  surveyed  from 
hat  to  shoelace. 

"Very  well.  Get  yourself  fed,  and  come  to  my 
tent  in  an  hour.  It  will  be  better  to  wait  until  dusk 


On  the  Firing  Line  91 

before  starting,  for  these  hills  are  infested  with 
Bod's.  Do  you  know  the  country  ?  " 

'*  Partly.     I  can  learn  the  rest." 

"  You  need  a  remount." 

Weldon  stroked  the  little  gray  broncho. 

"  If  I  had  ray  own  horse.  Otherwise,  I  prefer 
this.  I  can  trust  her,  even  if  she  is  tired." 

Again  the  glance  swept  him  over,  beginning  at 
the  boyish  face,  resolute  and  eager  beneath  its  streaks 
of  red-brown  dust.  Then,  as  Weldon  saluted,  the 
General  turned  and  rode  away,  with  the  Captain  at 
his  side. 

"  You  've  the  making  of  a  man  there,  Captain 
Frazer,"  was  his  sole  comment. 

Weldon,  meanwhile,  was  allowing  the  little  gray 
broncho  to  pick  her  own  dainty  way  out  of  the  sham- 
bles about  her  feet.  Then,  once  free  from  the  litter 
of  men  and  horses,  he  turned  her  head  to  the  spot 
where,  he  had  been  told,  his  squadron  were  gather- 
ing together  their  diminished  forces.  As  he  rode 
slowly  onward,  he  was  surprised  to  see  how  low  the 
sun  had  dropped.  The  fighting  must  have  lasted 
longer  than  he  had  thought.  It  had  been  hot  and 
heavy ;  but  at  least  he  had  not  funked  it.  For  so 
much  he  could  be  thankful.  In  so  far  as  he  could 
recall  any  of  his  emotions  as  he  had  dashed  into 
range  of  the  pitiless  firing,  they  had  been  summed  up 
in  a  dull  rage  against  the  enemy,  mingled  with  a 
vague  hope  that  no  harm  should  come  to  the  plucky 


92  On  the  Firing  Line 

little  mount.  Just  one  instants  pause  he  could  re- 
member. That  was  when  he  had  put  forth  all  his 
strength  to  check  her  pace  until  he  could  readjust  a 
strap  that  was  plainly  galling  her.  And  afterwards  ? 
Not  even  the  thoroughbred  Nig  could  have  played 
her  part  in  the  fight  with  more  steady  gallantry. 
Stooping,  he  eased  the  bit  and  patted  the  firm  gray 
neck  where  the  mane  swept  upward  for  its  arching  fall. 

"Boss?" 

He  straightened  in  his  saddle. 

"  Kruger  Bobs  !  By  all  special  providences,  where 
did  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  Naauwpoort.  Kruger  Bobs  come  bring  Nig  to 
Boss." 

"  Kruger  Bobs,  you  're  a  genius." 

Kruger  Bobs  vanished  behind  his  smile. 

"  Ya,  Boss,"  he  replied  then.     «  Boss  all  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,  all  right." 

"  Dutchmans  no  killed  Boss  ?  " 

"  No." 

Doubtfully  Kruger  Bobs  shook  his  sable  bristles. 
He  had  heard  the  firing,  such  firing  as  he  had  never 
dreamed  of  unttf  then,  and  it  seemed  to  him  impossi- 
ble that  any  man  could  come  unscathed  out  of  the 
heart  of  it.  Of  Weldon's  being  in  the  very  heart  of 
it,  no  doubt  had  once  stained  the  loyal  whiteness  of 
his  soul.  To  assure  himself  of  Weldon's  safety,  he 
ambled  around  the  gray  broncho  in  a  clumsy  circle. 
The  gray  broncho  showed  her  appreciation  of  the 


On  the  Firing  Line  93 

attention  by  nipping  viciously  at  the  flank  of  his 
horse.  By  Weldon's  left  side,  Kruger  Bobs  halted 
and  pointed  an  accusing  forefinger  at  his  knee. 

"  Dutchmans  hurt  Boss,"  he  said  anxiously. 

«  Where  ?  " 

"  Dere."  In  spite  of  his  effort  for  sternness,  the 
voice  of  Kruger  Bobs  quavered  with  anxiety. 

Bending  over,  Weldon  glanced  down  at  the  dark 
red  stain  on  the  coil  of  khaki  serge.  Then,  all  at 
once,  he  remembered  the  sudden  stinging  of  his  leg, 
just  before  he  had  started  the  gray  broncho  on  her  last 
mad  rush  across  the  lead-swept  plain.  In  the  excite- 
ment that  followed,  the  matter  had  entirely  passed  out 
of  his  mind.  Even  now  that  his  attention  was  called 
to  it,  he  was  conscious  of  no  physical  discomfort. 

"  Kruger  Bobs  go  for  doctor  ? "  the  boy  was 
urging. 

Weldon  laughed  reassuringly. 

"  It 's  nothing,  Kruger  Bobs.  I  've  no  time  to 
fool  with  doctors  now." 

"  What  Boss  do  ?  " 

"  Feed  Piggie,  eat  something,  look  up  Mr.  Carew 
and  then  get  to  the  General's  tent,  inside  an  hour." 

"  What  for  de  big  boss  soldier  ?  " 

"  He  wants  me." 

"  Ya  ?  "  Kruger  Bobs  demanded  uneasily. 

"  To  ride  a  despatch." 

"  Despatch  ! "  Kruger  Bobs  exploded  in  hot  wrath. 
"  Kruger  Bobs  go  despatch ;  Boss  go  bed." 


94  On  the  Firing  Line 

"Can't  do  it,  Kruger  Bobs.  This  is  war,  and 
I've  given  my  word  to  the  General.  It  was  an 
order,  and  I  had  to  do  it." 

Backing  his  horse  off  for  a  step  or  two,  Kruger 
Bobs  sat  looking  at  his  master  and  shaking  his  head 
mournfully.  Then  he  straightened  in  the  saddle. 

"  Boss  go ;  Kruger  Bobs  go,  too,11  he  said,  with 
steady  decision. 

Less  than  an  hour  later,  outside  the  General's 
tent  Kruger  Bobs  sat  astride  The  Nig,  with  the  rein 
of  the  gray  broncho  in  his  hand.  The  clouds,  since 
noon  banked  low  in  the  eastern  horizon,  had  swept 
up  across  the  sky,  and  already  the  rain  was  pattering 
drearily  over  the  hunched-up  shoulders  of  Kruger 
Bobs.  Inside  the  tent,  the  colloquy  was  brief. 
Twice  Weldon  repeated  over  the  substance  of  his 
despatches  and  his  instructions  regarding  their  des- 
tination. The  despatches  were  slipped  between  the 
layers  of  his  shoe-sole,  the  cut  stitches  were  replaced, 
and  Weldon  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  My  nigger  has  come  from  Naauwpoort,  bringing 
me  a  fresh  mount,'1  he  said  then.  "  May  I  take  him 
with  me  ?  " 

"  What  is  he  ?  * 

"  A  Kaffir.11 

"From  where?" 

"  Piquetberg  Road.11 

"  Can  you  trust  him  ?  " 

Weldon^  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  the  General  steadily. 


On  the  Firing  Line  95 

"  As  I  would  trust  myself,""  he  answered. 

Five  minutes  later,  Weldon  passed  out  of  the 
tent  door.  At  his  quarters,  he  dismounted  and 
went  in  search  of  a  blanket.  Muffled  in  the  thick 
folds,  the  horses'"  feet  would  make  no  sound  on  the 
hard-baked  earth.  Kruger  Bobs,  meanwhile,  went 
out  to  reconnoitre  in  order  to  discover  a  possible 
gap  in  the  line  of  Boer  pickets. 

The  pickets  once  passed,  Weldon  mounted  once 
more  and,  with  Kruger  Bobs  following  close  behind, 
rode  carefully  away  into  the  inky,  drizzling  night. 
For  the  first  hour,  he  rode  steadily  and  with  com- 
parative comfort.  The  excitement  of  the  battle  was 
still  in  his  blood,  its  noises  ringing  in  his  head,  its 
sights  dancing  like  will-o^-the-wisps  before  his  eyes. 
Later,  the  inevitable  reaction  would  follow,  and  the 
inevitable  weariness.  Now,  refreshed  by  their  sup- 
per, both  he  and  the  broncho  had  come  to  their 
second  wind,  and  they  faced  the  storm  pluckily  and 
with  unbowed  heads.  Beside  him,  The  Nig,  fresh 
and  fit  as  a  horse  could  be,  galloped  onward  steadily 
under  the  weight  of  Kruger  Bobs.  It  had  been  at 
Weldon's  own  command  that  Kruger  Bobs  had 
abandoned  his  raw-boned  steed  and  placed  himself 
astride  the  sacred  body  of  the  thoroughbred  Nig. 
On  such  a  night  and  after  such  a  battle,  a  horse 
abandoned  was  a  horse  forever  lost.  Neither  The 
Nig  nor  Piggie  could  be  left  to  any  chance  owner- 
ship, but  neither  could  Piggie,  fresh  from  a  two-day 


96  On  the  Firing  Line 

fight,  be  left  to  the  mercies  of  an  inexperienced 
rider.  Three  inches  shorter  than  his  master,  Kruger 
Bobs  weighed  fifty  pounds  the  more,  and  he  rode 
with  the  resilient  lightness  of  a  feather  bed. 

Weldon's  hour  of  rest  had  been  divided  in  strict 
ratio  between  himself,  his  friend  and  his  horse. 
For  fully  half  that  period,  he  and  Kruger  Bobs 
had  rubbed  the  sturdy  gray  legs  and  anointed  the 
scratched  neck  with  supplies  taken  from  the  porta- 
ble veterinary  hospital  always  to  be  found  in  the 
recesses  of  the  Kaffir's  scanty  garments.  Then, 
snatching  a  hasty  meal,  with  the  last  of  it  still  in 
his  hands,  Weldon  strode  away  to  look  for  Carew. 
He  found  him,  bandaged  but  jovial,  a  shattered 
bone  in  his  foot  and  his  pipe  in  his  shut  teeth. 
Fortunately  the  pain  bore  no  relation  to  the  serious- 
ness of  the  case,  and  Weldon  left  him  to  his  pipe, 
cheered  by  the  doctor's  assurance  that  two  or  three 
weeks  would  bring  him  back  into  fighting  trim. 
Carew's  own  disrespectful  comments  on  the  injured 
foot  were  still  in  his  ears,  as  he  entered  the  tent 
of  the  General. 

By  degrees,  the  night  grew  dark  and  darker. 
Riding  eastward  with  their  backs  to  the  southerly 
storm,  nevertheless  now  and  again  the  wind  swirled 
about  fiercely,  to  send  the  lashing  rain  against  their 
faces.  Under  their  feet,  the  dusty  veldt  turned  to 
mire,  from  mire  to  a  pasty  glue,  and  from  glue  to 
the  consistency  of  cream.  Bottom  there  was  none ; 


On  the  Firing  Line  97 

the  bottomlessness  of  it  only  became  more  apparent 
when  one  or  other  of  the  horses  stumbled  into  the 
hole  of  an  ant-bear.  Twice  the  gray  broncho  was 
on  her  knees ;  once  The  Nig  came  down  so  sharply 
that  Kruger  Bobs  rolled  forward  out  of  his  saddle, 
to  land  on  his  back,  nose  to  nose  with  his  astonished 
mount.  Worst  of  all,  the  fever  of  the  fight  was 
dying  out  from  Weldon's  veins.  His  pulses  were 
slowing  down,  and  the  ceaseless  jar  of  the  gray 
broncho's  gallop  waked  his  wounded  leg  to  a  pain 
which  fast  became  intolerable. 

Kruger  Bobs  edged  closer  to  his  side. 

"  Boss  sick  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  altogether  content,  Kruger  Bobs."" 

"  Leg  ?  "  the  boy  questioned  anxiously. 

"  Yes ;  that  —  and  some  other  things.1' 

"  Me  help  Boss  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.     I  'd  better  let  the  mess  alone."" 

"Boss  ride  Nig?11  Kruger  Bobs  suggested,  in 
the  hushed  tone  in  which  all  their  talk  had  been 
carried  on. 

"  It  is  better  not  to  change.11 

The  silence  broadened,  broken  only  by  the  splash- 
ing of  eight  hoofs  in  the  ever-deepening  mire,  and  by 
the  sighing  squeak  of  wet  strap  rubbing  on  wet  strap. 
Then  Kruger  Bobs  spoke  again. 

"  Paddy  send,11  he  said,  as  he  poked  a  soft  parcel 
into  Weldon's  dangling  hand.  "  He  say  *  Give  it  to 

little  Canuck.1 " 

7 


98  On  the  Firing  Line 

Weldon  felt  and  tasted  his  way  into  the  parcel. 
It  was  large,  and  filled  with  savory  bits  which  Paddy 
must  have  gleaned  here  and  there  from  the  general 
mess,  robbing  freely  from  many  a  greater  man,  all 
for  the  sake  of  the  "  little  Canuck." 

It  was  no  time  for  the  discipline  which  bids  a 
servant  eat  of  the  crumbs  from  his  master's  table. 
For  the  hour,  Kruger  Bobs  and  he  were  friends, 
bound  upon  one  and  the  same  errand.  With  im- 
partial hand,  Weldon  tore  the  paper  across  and 
divided  its  contents.  He  only  regretted  that  con- 
vention had  forbidden  him  the  trick  of  smacking  his 
lips  in  sign  of  relish.  It  would  have  been  good  to 
have  the  ability  of  Kruger  Bobs  to  give  audible  token 
of  his  appreciation  of  Paddy's  bounty. 

Somewhat  refreshed,  he  straightened  in  his  saddle. 

"  Now  be  careful,  Kruger  Bobs.  There  are  Boers 
in  these  hills,""  he  warned  his  companion ;  "  and  it 
would  never  do  for  us  to  be  sniped." 

Kruger  Bobs  came  close  to  his  side. 

"Dutchmans  kill  Kruger  Bobs,  no  matter;  kill 
Boss,  no  take  despatch.  Boss  say  to  Kruger  Bobs 
where  de  despatch.  Kruger  Bobs  take  him  to 
Kmgersdorp,  if  Boss  die." 

And  Weldon  shivered  a  little,  as  the  silence 
dropped  again. 

The  ridges  were  steeper  now,  and  came  in  more 
swift  succession,  as  the  horsemen  plodded  wearily 
along  the  southern  slope  of  the  Rand.  Piggie  was 


On  the  Firing  Line  99 

breathing  heavily ;  and  Weldon,  clinging  to  his 
saddle  with  the  purely  mechanical  grip  of  the  ex- 
hausted rider,  halted  again  and  again  to  rest  the 
plucky  little  animal  whose  best  was  always  his  for  the 
asking.  Of  his  own  condition  he  took  no  heed.  It 
was  all  in  the  game.  He  would  play  the  game  out 
as  long  as  he  could ;  but  his  last  move  should  be,  as 
his  first  had  been,  strictly  according  to  rule.  Mean- 
while, for  two  facts  he  was  at  a  loss  to  account. 
Dawning  was  still  hours  distant.  Nevertheless,  the 
darkness  before  him  was  blotted  and  blurred  with 
alternating  waves  of  blue  and  gray.  The  veldt  was 
empty ;  yet,  above  the  roar  of  the  rain  around  him, 
an  odd  purring  sound  was  in  his  ears.  Then  every- 
thing lost  itself  in  his  determination  not  to  allow  the 
saddle  to  slip  from  between  his  tired  knees. 

He  roused  himself  at  the  challenging  voice  of  a 
picket. 

"  Despatches  for  General  Kekewich,"  he  answered, 
in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  his  own  ears  to  have  come 
from  miles  away. 

"Advance  and  give  the  countersign." 

Irritably  he  gathered  himself  together. 

"  I  can't,  I  tell  you.  I  don't  know  your  blasted 
countersign.  I  've  despatches  from  Dixon  to  General 
Kekewich.  Take  me  to  him  at  once.1' 

The  colloquy  lasted  for  moments,  in  a  drawn 
battle  of  determination.  Its  stimulus  had  waked 
Weldon  from  his  lethargy  ;  it  had  also  waked  again 


100  On  the  Firing  Line 

that  fierce  and  throbbing  pain  below  his  knee.  He 
left  the  sentry  in  no  doubt,  either  of  the  truth  of  his 
statement,  or  of  his  mood.  Then,  with  Kruger  Bobs 
at  his  side,  he  plodded  forward  towards  the  lights  of 
the  town,  while  he  braced  himself  for  a  final  effort. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  he  reached  the  second  line 
of  pickets.  The  gray  broncho's  head  drooped  piti- 
fully, as  Weldon  sat  waiting  for  the  inevitable 
challenge.  It  came  at  last ;  and  Weldon's  answer- 
ing voice  was  slow  with  a  weakness  which  was  not  all 
feigned. 

"Despatches  from  Dixon's  column.  Take  me  to 
the  Commandant,  please."" 

He  was  dimly  aware  of  a  hand  on  his  bridle,  dimly 
conscious  that  Piggie  was  being  led  forward  for  a 
seemingly  endless  distance.  As  they  halted  in  front 
of  a  gray  stone  building,  Weldon  dimly  heard  the 
tingling  of  many  bells  within,  then  the  hurried 
opening  of  a  window,  and  a  voice  demanding  the 
cause  of  the  disturbance  below.  He  felt  himself 
going  fast ;  but,  gripping  his  will  with  all  his  might, 
he  pulled  himself  together  long  enough  to  answer,  — 

"Despatches  for  General  Kekewich  between  the 
soles  of  my  left  boot.r> 

Then  he  pitched  forward  on  his  broncho's  neck. 


On  the  Firing  Line  101 


CHAPTER   TEN 

"  f    |    ^WELVE  inches  make  one  foot,  six  feet 

make  one  man,  sixty  men  make  one  troop, 

-*-        four    troops    make   one   squadron,"  the 

monotonous   voice  ran   on.     Then   it   came   to  an 

unexpected   finale.      "  And  three   squadrons   make 

the  Boer  army  run.1'1 

The  man  in  the  next  bed  giggled.  His  wound 
was  in  his  shoulder,  and  it  had  left  his  sense  of 
humor  unimpaired.  As  a  rule,  the  fighting  records 
of  the  wounded  never  came  inside  that  long,  bed- 
bordered  room ;  but  there  were  few  within  it  now 
who  were  ignorant  of  the  plucky  ride  made  by  the 
lean,  boyish-looking  Canadian  trooper.  A  part  of 
the  story  had  come  by  way  of  the  doctor  in  charge 
of  the  ambulance  train  which  had  brought  him  from 
Krugersdorp  to  Johannesburg,  a  part  of  it  had  come 
from  the  trooper's  own  lips,  and  that  was  the  most 
tragic  part  of  it  all. 

Below,  in  the  courtyard  of  the  hospital,  Kruger 
Bobs  squatted  on  his  heels  in  the  sun  and  waited. 
Now  and  then,  he  vanished  to  look  after  the  crea- 
ture comforts  of  The  Nig  and  the  little  gray  broncho ; 
now  and  then  he  shuffled  forward  to  demand  news 


102  On  the  Firing  Line 

from  some  passer-by  whose  sleeve  was  banded  with 
the  Red-Cross  badge.  Then  he  shuffled  back  to  his 
former  post  and  sat  himself  down  on  his  heels  once 
more.  Kruger  Bobs  possessed  the  racial  traits  which 
make  it  an  easy  matter  to  sit  and  wait  for  news. 
He  was  also  an  optimist.  Nevertheless,  his  face  now 
was  overcast  and  rarely  did  it  vanish  behind  the 
spreading  limits  of  his  smile. 

For  four  days,  Weldon  lay  prostrate  and  babbled  of 
all  things,  past,  present  and  to  come.  Three  names 
dotted  his  babblings.  One  was  that  of  his  mother, 
one  of  his  captain,  and  the  third  that  of  Ethel 
Dent.  With  all  three  of  them,  he  appeared  to  be 
upon  the  best  of  terms.  Finally,  on  the  fifth  day, 
he  suddenly  waked  to  the  fact  that  a  woman  was 
bending  above  him,  to  wipe  his  face  with  a  damp 
sponge. 

He  was  too  weak  to  rise.  Nevertheless,  he  straight- 
ened himself  into  a  rigid  line,  and  addressed  her  with 
dignity. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Please  don't  wash  my  face 
for  me,""  he  said,  in  grave  displeasure. 

She  smiled  down  at  him,  with  the  air  of  a  mother 
smiling  at  a  fretful  child.  The  smile  irritated  him. 

"  Does  n't  it  refresh  you  ?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

"No,""  he  answered,  with  flat,  ungracious  men- 
dacity. 

"I  am  sorry.  You  have  been  sleeping  heavily, 
and  —  " 


On  the  Firing  Line  103 

He  felt  his  mind  slipping  out  of  his  own  grasp, 
and  he  strove  to  hold  it  in  his  keeping. 

"  No  matter  now,"  he  interrupted  hastily.  "  Please 
get  me  —  " 

She  waited  in  silence.  Then  she  asked  encour- 
agingly, — 

"What  shall  I  get  you?" 

The  mind  was  almost  gone ;  but  still  he  held  fast 
to  the  edge  of  it,  as  he  murmured,  — 

"  Some  bully  beef." 

The  nurse  turned  away.  Her  lips  were  smiling ; 
but  her  eyes  clouded,  as  the  babbling  began  once  more. 

Twenty-four  hours  later,  she  was  greeted  by  a 
white-faced,  clear-headed  trooper. 

"Good-morning,  nurse,"  he  said  coolly.  "You 
see  I  am  better." 

"Much  better,  Mr.  Weldon,"  she  assented  cor- 
dially. 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"  I  thought  we  fellows  in  hospital  had  no  names, 
nothing  but  numbers,"  he  answered. 

"It  depends.  When  one  meets  an  old  friend, 
the  number  is  n't  quite  the  right  name  for  him." 

Turning  slightly,  he  stared  up  at  her  with  the 
impassive  curiosity  of  a  man  just  coming  back  from 
The  Unknown.  Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  afraid  —  "  he  began  slowly. 

With  a  quick  gesture,  she  took  off  her  crisp  white 
cap,  uncovering  a  heavy  pile  of  ink-black  hair. 


104  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  There  ! "  she  said,  with  a  smile.  "  Does  that 
make  me  look  more  natural,  Mr.  Weldon  ?  I  am 
Alice  Mellen,  Cooee  Dent's  cousin."" 

Instantly  he  put  out  his  hand,  sunburned  still, 
but  curiously  thin.  The  smile  on  his  lips  was  the 
boyish,  frank  smile  which  Alice  had  seen  and  liked, 
that  afternoon  in  the  garden  at  home. 

"What  good  angel  brings  you  here?"  he  asked 
eagerly. 

"  No  angel ;  merely  the  lady  who  rules  over  the 
household  of  Mars.  I  am  glad  to  find  you  again, 
even  if  the  Johannesburg  hospital  is  n't  a  good  place 
for  a  man.  But  you  must  n't  talk  now.  Later,  we 
can  make  up  for  lost  time.1" 

Impetuously  his  fingers  shut  on  a  fold  of  her 
apron.  Then  his  native  instincts  and  his  years  of 
training  asserted  themselves,  and  he  let  go  once 
more.  Nevertheless,  his  eyes  were  appealing. 

"  Don't  go." 

"  But  I  must,"  she  answered,  her  hands  busy  with 
her  cap. 

Her  tone  showed  that,  like  himself,  she  too  had 
learned  the  meaning  of  an  order.  He  yielded  to  its 
quiet  firmness. 

"  If  you  must.  But,  before  you  go,  tell  me  this  : 
have  I  been  off  my  head  ?  " 

She  nodded  in  assent. 

He  frowned. 

"Sorry,"  he  said   briefly.      "Please  answer    me 


On  the  Firing  Line  105 

honestly.  Have  I  mumbled  things  and  made  a 
blasted  fool  of  myself?1' 

It  was  still  two  days  before  he  was  allowed  to  talk 
to  his  own  satisfaction.  Then,  one  afternoon  in  her 
rest  hour,  Alice  Mellen  let  him  have  his  way  and, 
seated  by  his  cot,  she  answered  tersely  to  a  raking 
fire  of  terse  questions. 

"  How  long  have  I  been  here  ?  " 

"  Just  a  week." 

"How  did  I  get  here?" 

"  Hospital  train  from  Krugersdorp." 

"What  for?" 

"  You  had  a  touch  of  fever.  We  could  treat  you 
better  here."  Her  replies  were  man-like  in  their 
brevity. 

"  Fever  ?     I  thought  it  was  a  Mauser  bullet." 

"  It  was.  Your  leg  was  not  so  bad  ;  but  the  long 
ride  and  the  exposure  to  the  storm  —  " 

He  interrupted  her. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  my  ride  ?  "  he  asked. 

Her  answer  showed  that  the  woman  was  not  lost 
in  the  nurse. 

"  Everybody  knows  of  your  ride.  Even  in  these 
days  of  plucky  deeds,  we  are  proud  of  you." 

He  shook  his  head,  though  the  color  came  into  his 
cheeks,  brown  beneath  their  pallor. 

"  It  was  nothing.     I  did  my  duty." 

"  So  Kruger  Bobs  has  informed  us." 

"  Kruger  Bobs  ?     Is  he  here  ?  " 


106  On  the  Firing  Line 

This  time,  she  laughed  outright. 

"  I  should  say  he  was.  For  a  week,  he  has  been 
sitting  exactly  in  the  path  of  the  doctors,  waiting  for 
news.  Twice  he  has  been  ordered  off;  but  he  merely 
hitches  over  to  the  other  end  of  the  steps  and  refuses 
to  budge  farther.  We  discovered  him,  the  first  night 
you  were  here,  by  having  the  head  surgeon  fall  head- 
long over  him,  as  he  went  down  the  steps.  Kruger 
Bobs  does  n't  show  up  well,  on  a  dark  night.1' 

Weldon  clasped  his  hands  at  the  back  of  his  head. 

"  If  I  thought  you  were  using  American  slang, 
Miss  Mellen,  I  should  contradict  you,"  he  answered, 
with  a  touch  of  his  old  humor.  "  I  can  remember 
at  least  one  dark  night  when  Kruger  Bobs  made  an 
excellent  showing." 

She  nodded. 

"  We  have  had  a  few  Americans  here  before,  Mr. 
Weldon.  I  think  I  understand." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  "  he  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

"Ten  weeks." 

"  And  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Why  else  should  I  be  here  ?  " 

"  From  a  sense  of  duty." 

"  Is  that  what  brought  you  out  ?  " 

"No.  My  coming  was  inevitable.  It  seemed  a 
part  of  me  that  I  could  n't  help." 

"  But  you  wished  to  come  ?  "  she  queried. 

"  Of  course.     But   that  was   only  a  part  of  it. 


On  the  Firing  Line  107 

I  have  wished  to  do  things  before,  and  have  done 
them.  This  was  quite  different.  It  all  seemed  a 
part  of  Fate,  and  I  walked  through  it,  like  a  puppet 
with  somebody  else's  hand  pulling  the  strings.11  He 
paused  and  shook  his  head.  "  It  is  no  use.  I  can't 
make  you  understand  it.  I  acted  freely  and  did 
just  what  I  chose;  but  yet,  all  the  time,  I  felt  as 
if  it  had  all  been  arranged  for  me,  whole  generations 
ago.11 

Thoughtfully  she  bent  forward,  straightened  the 
coverings  above  his  wounded  leg ;  then  sat  up  again. 
Then  she  shook  her  head  a  little  regretfully. 

"  No,11  she  said.  "  I  am  afraid  I  don't  understand. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  selfish ;  but  I  usually  feel 
as  if  I  made  my  plans,  regardless  of  Fate.11 

"  What  about  our  meeting  here  ? "  he  asked 
quizzically. 

She  answered  in  the  same  tone. 

"  Wait  until  we  see  what  comes  out  of  it.  Fate, 
if  one  believes  in  such  a  thing,  only  works  in  an 
endless  chain.11 

"  And  the  broken  links  ?  " 

"  According  to  your  notion,  there  should  be  none,11 
she  retorted.  "  Fate  ought  to  be  a  better  workman 
than  that.11 

"Than  what?11 

"  Than  spoiling  her  work  as  she  goes  along.  If 
there's  any  chain  at  all,  it  should  be  endless  and 
durable.  But  a  man  with  a  Mauser  hole  in  his  leg 


108  On  the  Firing  Line 

and  a  fever  in  his  head  has  no  business  to  be  talking 
of  Fate.  Let 's  talk  about  Ethel,  instead." 

He  settled  himself  back  comfortably. 

"Perhaps  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing,  in  the 
long  run." 

"Perhaps.  I  don't  see  how,  though.  Anyway, 
Ethel  would  n't  be  pleased  with  the  notion.  She  is 
absolutely  independent,  and  generally  arranges  things 
according  to  her  own  sweet  will.11 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  In  Cape  Town,11  Alice  answered,  quite  unaware 
of  her  own  lack  of  truth. 

"  And  well  ?  " 

"  Gloriously.  In  fact,  as  far  as  I  can  learn,  Cooee 
always  is  well.  Just  now  she  is  having  a  wonder- 
fully gay  time.  Since  Lord  Roberts  went  back  to 
England,  Cape  Town  has  been  full  of  people,  rest- 
ing there  before  sailing  for  home." 

"Resting?" 

"  Have  n't  they  earned  the  right  ?  "  she  questioned, 
in  swift  challenge  to  the  quiet  scorn  in  his  tone. 

"  Even  if  the  battles  are  over,  the  fighting  is  n't," 
he  answered  tersely.  "  The  glory  does  n't  lie  entirely 
in  the  pulverizing  the  Boer  army ;  there 's  a  little 
left  for  the  men  who  are  sweeping  up  the  pieces." 

Her  trained  eye  saw  the  rising  color  in  his  face. 
Swiftly  she  changed  the  subject. 

"  Glory  for  all,  enough  and  to  spare,"  she  replied. 
"  But,  as  I  say,  Cape  Town  is  crowded  with  officers, 


On  the  Firing  Line  109 

lying  up  for  repairs,  and  Ethel  is  queen  bee  among 
them.  It's  not  only  for  herself;  it  is  what  you 
would  call  Fate.  She  happens  to  be  the  only  girl  of 
her  set  who  is  just  out  from  London ;  she  had  met  a 
good  many  of  them  there,  and  now  she  is  holding  a 
veritable  salon.  She  even  has  one  sacred  teacup, 
set  up  on  a  high  shelf  ever  since  the  day  that  Baden- 
Powell  used  it." 

Weldon  smiled. 

"  Miss  Dent  is  a  hero-worshipper,"  he  commented. 

"  So  are  we  all,  in  certain  directions.  Moreover, 
most  women  like  their  heroes  to  have  a  little  person- 
ality. One  can't  make  one's  admiration  stick  to  a 
blank  wall  of  impersonal  perfection." 

Weldon's  mind  moved  swiftly  backwards  to  two 
blue,  black-fringed  eyes  glowing  out  from  a  dust- 
streaked  face. 

"  No,"  he  assented ;  "  but  neither  can  one  ever 
really  be  chums  with  his  hero.  Or,  even  if  he  can, 
he  does  n't  care  to  try  the  experiment." 

Alice  glanced  at  her  watch,  rose,  then  lingered. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  she  replied  thought- 
fully. "I  want  the  pedestal  of  my  hero  to  be  a 
low  one ;  and  Cooee  declares  that  she  wishes  no 
pedestal  at  all.  If  her  hero  is  worthy  of  the  name, 
he  must  bear  inspection  even  from  above.  The 
worst  flaw  of  all  might  lurk  in  the  very  crown  of  his 
head." 

Half  an  hour  later,  she  came  back  again. 


110  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Mr.  Weldon,  do  you  feel  strong  enough  to  see 
Kruger  Bobs  for  exactly  five  minutes  ?  "  she  asked. 

The  gray  eyes  lighted. 

"  For  ten  times  five,11  he  answered  eagerly. 

Kruger  Bobs  shuffled  in  upon  the  heels  of  an 
orderly.  Under  his  bristly  hair,  his  face  was  a 
study  of  mingled  emotions  which  culminated  in  his 
mouth.  A  grin  of  pure  happiness  had  drawn  up  the 
upper  lip  ;  at  sight  of  his  prostrate  master,  the  lower 
one  was  rolling  outward  in  a  sudden  wave  of  pure 
pity.  Beside  the  cot,  he  halted  and  stood  looking 
down  at  Weldon  with  eyes  which,  for  the  moment, 
transformed  his  lazy,  jolly,  simian  face  into  a  species 
of  nobility.  Lying  back  on  his  pillow,  Weldon 
waited  for  him  to  speak,  waited  with  an  odd,  rest- 
less beating  of  the  heart  for  which  he  was  wholly  at 
a  loss  to  account. 

The  pause  between  them  lengthened.  At  last 
Kruger  Bobs  drew  his  mangy  brown  felt  hat  across 
his  eyes. 

"  I 's  here,  Boss,"  he  said  simply. 

However,  it  was  enough. 

The  next  morning  found  Weldon  sitting  up.  A 
clean-cut  hole  through  the  flesh  of  a  man  who  has 
lived  a  clean-cut  life  is  swift  in  healing.  Now  that 
his  fever  had  left  him,  his  superb  vitality  was  assert- 
ing itself  once  more,  and  he  rallied  quickly.  Mean- 
while, it  was  good  to  be  able  to  sit  up  and  eat  his 
breakfast  like  a  civilized  being.  Weldon  had  all  the 


On  the  Firing  Line  111 

detestation  of  the  average  healthy  being  for  invalid 
ways.  Moreover,  he  longed  to  be  up  and  doing. 
With  his  growing  strength,  the  orderly,  noiseless 
routine  of  the  hospital  came  upon  his  nerves.  One 
of  the  nurses  always  walked  on  the  points  of  her  toes  ; 
and  he  was  conscious  of  a  wild  longing  to  throw  a 
pillow  at  her,  as  she  went  diddling  to  and  fro  past 
him,  a  dozen  times  a  day.  The  doctor,  a  man  of 
iron  nerve  and  velvet  hand,  was  a  daily  delight  to  him. 
And  there  was  always  Alice,  frank,  friendly  and  al- 
together enjoyable.  During  the  past  three  days, 
their  liking  had  grown  apace.  Absolutely  feminine, 
yet  with  the  healthy  impersonality  of  a  growing 
boy,  Alice  Mellen  was  a  born  comrade,  and  Weldon 
enjoyed  her  just  as,  in  her  place,  he  would  have 
enjoyed  Carew. 

She  came  down  the  ward,  that  morning,  and  paused 
beside  his  chair. 

"  You  look  like  your  old  self  at  last,"  she  said,  as 
she  held  out  her  hand  in  congratulation. 

"  I  might  echo  your  words,11  he  answered,  while  he 
looked  up  into  her  eyes,  shining  with  merriment  and 
with  something  that  yet  seemed  to  him  closely  akin 
to  annoyance.  "  Granted  the  apron,  you  might  be 
pouring  tea  at  home.11 

"  Not  tea ;  but  malted  milk,  in  these  latter  days,11 
she  said,  laughing.  "  But  I  am  about  to  retire  from 
your  case.  May  I  introduce  your  new  nurse,  Mr. 
Weldon?" 


112  On  the  Firing  Line 

His  reluctant  assent  was  changed  to  eager  greet- 
ing. Light,  swift  steps  came  down  the  room  ;  a  tall 
figure  stopped  at  his  side  in  the  full  glare  of  a  sun- 
shiny window  which  all  at  once  seemed  focussing 
its  light  upon  waving  strands  and  heaped-up  coils 
of  vivid  yellow  hair. 

"  Cooee  ! "  Then,  too  late,  he  bethought  himself 
of  his  manners  and  tried  to  bite  the  word  off  short. 

Linking  her  arm  in  that  of  her  cousin,  the  girl 
stood  looking  down  at  him  with  merry,  mocking  blue 
eyes. 

"  Invalids  are  supposed  to  have  privileges  denied 
to  well  men,""  she  answered  demurely.  "It  might 
perhaps  be  Cooee  here,  to-day ;  but  it  will  have  to 
be  Miss  Dent,  to-morrow,  when  you  are  back  in  the 
field  again.  After  all,  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to 
make  the  change,  Trooper  Weldon." 


On  the  Firing  Line  113 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

UPON  one  side,  at  least,  the  meeting  between 
the  two  cousins  on  the  previous  night  had 
been  wholly  unexpected. 

Late  that  afternoon,  an  ambulance  train  had  come 
in,  loaded  with  men  from  the  over-crowded  field  hospi- 
tal at  Krugersdorp,  and  for  hours  Alice  had  been 
in  ceaseless  attendance  upon  the  surgeon  in  charge. 
Little  by  little,  the  girl  had  found  her  nerves  steady- 
ing down  to  the  task  in  hand  ;  nevertheless,  the  past 
ten  weeks,  in  return  for  the  increase  of  her  poise,  had 
taken  something  from  her  vitality.  Quickness  of 
eye,  firmness  of  hand,  evenness  of  temper :  all  these 
may  be  gifts  of  the  gods.  Their  use  is  a  purely 
human  function,  and  proportionately  exhausting. 
The  girl's  one  salvation  lay  in  the  fact  that  her 
quick  sympathy  with  her  patients  was  for  the  most 
part  impersonal.  Up  to  this  time,  Weldon  had 
been  her  only  patient  whom  she  had  known  outside 
the  routine  duties  of  her  hospital  life.  In  a  sense, 
it  had  been  a  relief  to  meet  some  one  whom  she 
knew  to  be  of  her  own  world ;  in  a  sense,  the  case 
had  worn  upon  her  acutely.  She  could  watch  with 
a  greater  degree  of  stolidity  the  sufferings  of  other 
men. 


114  On  the  Firing  Line 

Among  her  new  charges,  that  day,  only  one  had 
made  any  distinct  impression  upon  her  overworked 
brain.  That  was  a  jovial  young  fellow,  handsome  as 
Phoebus  Apollo,  in  spite  of  a  slashing  scar  across  one 
cheek.  He  had  answered  to  her  questions  regarding 
his  wounded  foot  with  an  accent  so  like  that  of 
Weldon  that  involuntarily  she  lingered  beside  him 
to  add  a  word  of  cheery  consolation.  His  was  her 
final  case,  that  night.  As  she  wearily  turned 
towards  her  own  room,  she  made  no  effort  to 
analyze  her  exhaustion. 

She  found  Ethel,  still  in  her  hat  and  jacket,  sit- 
ting on  the  edge  of  her  own  narrow  cot. 

«  Cooee  Dent !  " 

"Yes,  dear."  The  girTs  tone  was  nonchalant, 
even  while  the  telltale  color  came  into  her  cheeks. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Visiting  you,  of  course." 

"  Visiting  me !  But,  Cooee,  I  really  don't  know 
where  I  can  put  you."" 

With  perfect  composure,  Ethel  passed  her  hand 
over  the  surface  of  the  cot. 

"  Oh,  I  think  this  nutmeg-grater  will  carry  two. 
Still,  Alice,  I  must  say  that  your  hospitality  is  n't 
exactly  exuberant." 

Alice  dropped  into  a  chair  and  wearily  pushed  her 
hair  still  farther  back  from  her  forehead. 

"But,  Cooee—" 

"  Are  n't  you  glad  to  see  me  ?  "  Ethel  demanded. 

*•  O 


On  the  Firing  Line  115 

"  Certainly.  You  are  always  a  dear ;  but  —  I 
wish  I  had  known  you  were  coming." 

Ethel  raised  her  brows,  and  a  slight  edge  came 
into  her  voice. 

"  If  you  don't  want  me,  Alice,  I  can  go  home  in 
the  morning.1' 

Dimly  aware  that  her  cousin  was  fencing  with  an 
invisible  adversary,  nevertheless  Alice  Mellen  was 
too  tired,  that  night,  to  range  herself  upon  the  side 
of  that  adversary.  As  far  as  she  was  concerned, 
Ethel  had  dropped  upon  her  like  a  bolt  from  the 
blue.  She  was  too  busy,  too  absorbed  in  her  pa- 
tients to  give  more  than  a  passing  thought  to  even 
her  most  intimate  cousin.  And  besides,  Weldon  — 
She  pulled  herself  together  sharply. 

"Of  course  I  want  you,  Cooee  dear.  It  is  only 
a  bit  sudden,  and  I  am  trying  to  think  what  to  do 
with  you.1' 

Now  and  then  Ethel  turned  wayward.  This  was 
one  of  the  times. 

"  If  you  did  n't  know  what  to  do  with  me,  Alice, 
then  why  did  you  ask  me  to  come  ?  " 

"  But  I  did  n't,"  Alice  responded,  too  astonished  to 
modify  her  denial  into  a  polite  form  of  fibbing. 

Ethel's  tone  was  gently  superior. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  you  did." 

"  When  ?  " 

"  When  you  were  leaving  home.  You  said  then 
that  I  must  be  sure  to  come  up  to  spend  a  week  with 


116  On  the  Firing  Line 

you,  early  in  the  winter.""  Then  her  accent  changed. 
"  You  poor  tired  child ! "  she  said,  as  she  rose  and 
crossed  to  her  cousin's  side.  "  This  work  is  too  hard 
for  you;  you  look  as  if  you  had  been  fighting  the 
Boers  themselves,  instead  of  merely  enteric  and 
bullet  holes.  I  think  it  is  just  as  well  that  I  am 
here  to  look  out  for  you,  for  a  few  days." 

Alice  lifted  her  hand  to  the  hand  that  lay  against 
her  cheek. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Cooee  dear.  I  am  only  so 
surprised  that  it  makes  me  slow  to  tell  you  so.  If 
you  can  sleep  here,  to-night,  I  can  find  a  better 
place  for  you  in  the  morning." 

"  This  will  do,"  Ethel  answered,  while  she  slowly 
drew  the  pins  from  her  hat.  "  It  is  neat,  even  if  it 
is  n't  spacious.  Really,  Alice,  I  should  have  let  you 
know ;  but  it  was  only  just  as  I  was  starting  that  I 
found  I  could  come  at  all.  Father  is  at  home,  and 
mother  is  unusually  well,  and  I  thought  I  would 
best  make  the  most  of  the  opportunity." 

Crossing  the  room  to  the  table,  she  stood  with 
her  back  to  her  cousin,  while  she  smoothed  the 
feathers  in  her  hat.  Then,  without  turning,  she 
asked  abruptly,  — 

"How  is  Mr.  Weldon?" 

"  Better." 

«  Out  of  all  danger  ?  " 

"Yes.  Not  that  he  has  been  in  much  danger, 
anyway." 


On  the  Firing  Line  117 

"  Oh,  I  thought  —  " 

Then  silence  fell. 

Alice,  meanwhile,  was  busy  with  a  swift  calcula- 
tion. Five  days,  in  these  troubled  times,  for  a 
letter  to  go  from  Johannesburg  to  Cape  Town ;  five 
days  since  Ethel  could  have  left  Cape  Town.  And 
her  one  letter  to  Ethel  since  Weldon's  arrival  had 
been  posted  just  three  days  before. 

"  How  did  you  know  Mr.  Weldon  was  here  ?  "  she 
asked  sharply. 

Ethel's  back  was  still  turned  towards  her.  Never- 
theless, she  could  see  the  scarlet  tide  mounting  to 
the  ears  and  to  the  roots  of  the  vivid  gold  hair. 

"  Why,  your  letter,  Alice,""  Ethel  answered  com- 
posedly. 

Alice's  laugh  was  sharp  and  edged  with  malice. 

"  Yes,  dear.  My  letter,  telling  you  of  his  being 
here,  will  be  delivered  at  your  house  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  Oh,  then  I  must  have  mixed  things  up,"  Ethel 
replied,  as  she  turned  to  face  her  cousin.  "Prob- 
ably Captain  Frazer  told  me.1' 

"  Captain  Frazer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  came  down  to  Cape  Town,  just  before  I 
left  there.  I  remember  now,  he  was  the  one  who 
told  me.  He  was  near  Mr.  Weldon  at  Vlaakfontein ; 
he  knew  all  about  his  awful  ride  into  Krugersdorp, 
and  I  believe  he  did  say  he  was  to  be  brought  here." 

For  a  moment  more,  the  two  pairs  of  eyes,  the 


118  On  the  Firing  Line 

blue  and  the  black,  met  in  steady  warfare,  neither 
one  yielding  in  the  least,  neither  one  quite  aware 
how  much  she  was  betraying  to  the  other. 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?  "  Ethel  demanded  tempestu- 
ously then. 

"  Nothing,  only  —  are  you  sure  you  were  wise  to 
come  ?  " 

The  blue  eyes  blazed. 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  Alice  ?  You 
asked  me  to  visit  you  here,  to  see  your  work  among 
your  patients.  I  have  come.  If  I  came  at  all,  it 
had  to  be  now.  I  can't  always  leave  home  for  a 
week  at  a  time.  And  I  can't  help  it,  can  I,  if  Mr. 
Weldon  happens  to  be  one  of  your  patients  ?  " 

"  No  ;  you  can't,"  Alice  admitted  slowly.  "  It 
only  remains  to  be  seen  whether  you  would  care 
to  help  it,  if  you  could." 

Again  Ethel  crossed  the  room.  This  time,  she 
dropped  down  at  her  cousin's  side. 

"  Don't  let  us  argue  about  it  and  get  cross  at  each 
other,  dear.  If  I  have  made  a  mistake  in  coming 
now,  I  am  sorry.  But  I  am  here.  Let  me  stay  a 
few  days ;  I  may  be  able  to  help  you  a  little.  Any- 
way, I  promise  not  to  be  a  trouble  to  you.  It  is  so 
long  since  I  have  seen  you,  Alice.  And  —  "  Again 
the  silence  dropped. 

Alice  roused  herself  from  the  reverie  which  was 
creeping  over  her.  She  was  glad  to  see  Ethel,  un- 
feignedly  glad.  The  bright,  animated  presence  of 


On  the  Firing  Line  119 

her  cousin,  during  the  next  few  days,  could  not  fail 
to  be  a  tonic.  And,  as  Ethel  had  said,  she  herself 
had  been  the  one  to  suggest  the  first  idea  of  the 
winter  visit.  Chance  and  Captain  Frazer  had  de- 
creed that  it  should  take  place  now,  when  Alice's 
hands  were  immoderately  full  of  work.  But  then, 
so  much  the  better.  Ethel  could  make  herself  in- 
valuable among  the  convalescents.  She  herself  had 
not  put  on  her  Red-Cross  badge  for  the  sake  of 
taking  her  rest  hour  at  the  bedside  of  Trooper 
Harvard  Weldon. 

Half  undressed,  Ethel  paused,  hair  brush  in  hand. 

"You  can't  imagine  how  tired  I  am,  Alice.  It  is 
a  terrible  journey  up  here  nowadays.  I  was  in  terror 
of  a  train-wreck  at  any  moment,"  she  said  drowsily. 
"Don't  let  me  sleep  too  long  in  the  morning,  be- 
cause," she  pulled  open  her  eyes  long  enough  to  dart 
a  mocking  glance  over  her  shoulder  at  her  cousin ; 
"because  you  know,  right  after  breakfast,  you  are 
going  to  let  me  begin  to  help  you  take  care  of  some 
of  your  people." 

From  behind  her  own  sheltering  veil  of  ink-black 
hair,  Alice  laughed. 

"  Cooee,  you  are  a  dear ;  but  you  're  rather  a 
trial,"  she  said  slowly.  "  However,  now  that  you 
are  here,  I  think  I  shall  ask  the  P.  M.  O.  to  set  you 
to  work  to  watch  over  the  needs  of  Mr.  Weldon. 
He  won't  be  here  much  longer ;  but,  while  he  stays, 
I  shall  consider  him  your  patient."  Then,  brushing 


120  On  the  Firing  Line 

aside  the  veil,  she  bent  forward  and  touched  her  lips 
to  her  cousin's  cheek. 

"  Might  I  ask  what  brought  you  up  here,  Miss 
Dent  ?"  Weldon  asked,  the  next  day. 

Beside  him  sat  Ethel,  her  hands  demurely  clasped 
in  the  lap  of  her  broad  white  apron. 
"  My  cousin's  invitation,"  she  replied. 
"  Then  Miss  Mellen  knew  you  were  coming  ? " 
"  Yes.     She  asked  me  to  come,  early  in  the  winter." 
"  Strange  she  said  nothing  about  it !     We  were 
talking  about  you,  only  yesterday." 

"  She  did  n't  know,  even  then,  that  I  was  so  im- 
minent," Ethel  answered.  "  I  took  her  quite  by 
surprise,  at  the  last." 

"A  surprise  all  around,  then,"  he  said,  with  a 
boyish  laugh.  "  I  was  astonished  to  find  Miss 
Mellen  here,  and  you  must  have  been  equally  aston- 
ished to  find  me.  If  only  Captain  Frazer  would 
appear,  our  old  quartette  would  be  complete." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  must  get  on  without  him,"  she 
said  lightly. 

"  Unfortunately,  yes.     I  wonder  where  he  is." 
"  In  Cape  Town,"  she  replied  unexpectedly. 
"  Really  ?     What  is  he  doing  there  ?  " 
"  Don't  expect  me  to  tell.     It  has  something  to  do 
with  a  staff;  but  whether  he  carries  it,  or  becudgels 
recruits  with  it,  I  have  no  idea  at  all." 
"He  has  n't  left  the  Scottish  Horse  ?  " 
"  In  fact ;  but  not  in  name.     Your  regiment  is 


On  the  Firing  Line  121 

still  in  the  Transvaal ;  but  he  keeps  a  sort  of  vicari- 
ous connection  with  it.  Please  don't  expect  me  to 
grasp  military  details,  Mr.  Weldon.  I  merely  repeat 
the  facts,  parrot  fashion ;  you  must  interpret  them 
to  suit  yourself." 

He  laughed  again.  Already,  in  that  one  morning, 
he  appeared  to  have  taken  a  long  stride  towards  the 
regaining  of  his  old  self. 

"  You  are  a  perfect  gazette,  Miss  Dent,  the  first 
bit  of  news  that  has  crept  inside  this  place.  Where 
did  you  get  all  your  information  ?  " 

"  From  Captain  Frazer."  Her  rising  color  belied 
her  unconcerned  tone. 

"  You  have  seen  him,  then  ?  " 

"Yes.  He  is  usually  very  good  about  calling, 
whenever  he  comes  to  Cape  Town." 

"And  is  he  well?" 

"Absolutely.  Also  quite  enthusiastic  over  his 
troopers  and  the  work  they  did  at  Vlaakfontein." 

"  Were  —  many  —  " 

She  understood. 

"  Not  very  many ;  but  several  were  wounded. 
Worst  of  all,  one  or  two  of  the  wounded  ones  were 
shot  by  the  Boers.  Mr  Carew  told  me  that  he  left  a 
dozen  of  your  men  in  the  hospital  at  Krugersdorp." 

"  Carew  ?     Have  you  seen  him,  too,  Miss  Dent  ?" 

"  Did  n't  you  know  he  was  here  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her  in  blank  amazement. 

"  Here  in  Johannesburg  ?  " 


122  On  the  Firing  Line    . 

"  Here  in  this  hospital." 

"  In  what  shape  ?  " 

"  Hilarious  in  his  mind,  and  with  a  foot  that  is 
coming  out  right  in  course  of  time.  Didn't  Alice 
tell  you?" 

"  No." 

"  Strange.  She  took  me  to  see  him,  this  morning, 
on  my  way  here,  because  he  was  such  a  promising 
patient.  She  was  quite  surprised  to  find  we  were  old 
acquaintances." 

"  Oh,"  Weldon  said  slowly.  "  I  begin  to  see.  Miss 
Mellen  had  never  met  Carew,  so  she  had  no  idea  we 
were  friends.  What  a  curious  snarl  it  all  is ! " 

"The  hand  of  Fate  is  in  it,"  Ethel  assented  idly. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  Fate,  too  ?  " 

"  Surely.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  only  your  cousin  said  you  did  n't." 

The  girl  frowned. 

"  Alice  does  n't  know  all  my  mental  processes,"  she 
said  a  little  severely. 

"She  didn't  pretend  to.  We  were  speaking  of 
Fate,  yesterday,  of  the  way  certain  events  in  one's 
life  seem  absolutely  inevitable  ;  at  least,  I  was.  Then 
the  conversation  worked  around  to  you,  and  Miss 
Mellen  suggested  that  you  usually  rose  superior  to 
Fate,"  Weldon  explained  at  some  length. 

Once  again,  Ethel  felt  the  note  of  finality  in  his 
tone.  For  an  instant,  she  shut  her  lips.  Then  she 
reverted  to  the  main  question. 


On  the  Firing  Line  123 

"  How  do  you  mean  inevitable  ?  " 

"  As  if  you  chose  your  path,  and  then  found  that, 
for  always,  it  had  been  the  only  thing  for  you  to  do. 
That 's  not  so  clear,  I  know  ;  but  I  can't  put  it 
much  better." 

"  For  instance  ? " 

"  For  instance,  my  coming  out  here  when  I  did.  I 
was  interested  in  the  war;  but  there  was  no  real 
question  of  my  coming,  until  the  month  I  sailed. 
Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  seemed  to  know  why  it  was 
that  I  had  spent  my  life  on  horseback.  They  told 
me  in  England  that  the  real  war  was  over.  When  I 
landed  at  Cape  Town,  I  found  out  that  the  one  thing 
needed  was  a  man  who  could  ride,  and  shoot  straight. 
From  the  day  I  sailed  from  home,  until  now,  I  have 
been  like  an  actor  walking  through  a  part  that  some 
one  else  has  written  for  him.  I  have  chosen  nothing ; 
it  all  has  been  inevitable." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  stood  leaning  on  the  back 
of  her  chair. 

"  In  that  case,  Mr.  Weldon,  you  must  include  our 
meeting  in  your  scheme  of  things,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile. 

His  answering  smile  met  her  smile  with  perfect 
frankness. 

"I  sometimes  wonder  if  that  wasn't  the  most 
inevitable  part  of  it  all." 


124  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

THE  red-brown  veldt  stretched  away  to  the 
sky-line,  sixty  miles  distant.  Level  as  it 
looked,  it  was  nevertheless  a  succession  of 
softly  rolling  ridges  dotted  with  clumps  of  dried 
sagebrush  and  spotted  here  and  there  with  heaps 
of  black  volcanic  rocks.  Far  to  the  northward,  a 
thin  line  of  poplars  and  willows  marked  the  bed  of 
a  river.  Beyond  that,  again,  the  air  was  thick 
with  smoke  from  acres  of  burning  veldt.  The  days 
were  full  of  dust,  and  the  nights  were  full  of  frost ; 
it  was  the  month  of  June,  and  winter  was  upon  the 
land. 

The  camp  was  taking  a  well-earned  rest.  For 
days,  the  men  had  swept  over  the  veldt,  following 
hard  on  the  trail  of  a  Boer  general  who  only 
made  himself  visible  now  and  then  by  a  spatter  of 
bullets,  when  his  convoy  train  was  delayed  at  a 
difficult  ford.  It  had  been  a  week  of  playing  puss- 
in-the-corner  over  a  charred  and  dusty  land,  where 
the  only  roads  were  trails  trodden  out  to  powder  by 
the  hoofs  of  those  that  had  gone  before.  Both  men 
and  mounts  were  well-nigh  exhausted,  and  the  offi- 
cers had  decreed  a  halt. 

The  strain  had  been  intense.  Now,  with  the 
relaxing  of  it,  its  memory  vanished,  and  the  halt 


On  the  Firing  Line  125 

swiftly  took  upon  itself  the  appearance  of  a  school 
holiday.  Laughing  and  chaffing  each  other,  groups 
of  men  loitered  here  and  lounged  there,  smoking, 
writing  letters,  and  taking  stout,  unlovely  stitches 
in  their  time-worn  khaki  clothing.  At  one  side  of 
the  camp  was  the  tent  of  the  mess  sergeant,  equipped 
like  a  portable  species  of  corner  grocery.  Near  by, 
Paddy  apparently  was  in  his  element,  presiding  over 
his  camp-kitchen,  a  vast  bonfire  encircled  with  a 
dozen  iron  pots.  At  the  farther  edge  of  the  camp 
Weldon  was  umpiring  a  game  of  football  between 
his  own  squadron  and  a  company  of  the  Derbys. 
Owing  to  the  athletic  zeal  of  the  hour,  it  was  big- 
side,  and  Weldon  was  too  busy  in  keeping  his  eye 
upon  so  many  players  to  pay  much  attention  to  his 
own  loneliness. 

In  all  truth,  however,  he  was  lonely.  The  week 
since  he  had  rejoined  his  squadron  had  dragged 
perceptibly.  Captain  Frazer  was  in  Cape  Town ; 
Carew  was  still  in  hospital  at  Johannesburg  where, 
under  the  eyes  of  Alice  Mellen  and  her  cousin, 
he  was  fast  resuming  his  old  finical  habits.  Dingy 
and  veldt-stained  though  he  might  be,  Carew  at 
heart  would  always  remain  the  exquisite.  How- 
ever, exquisite  that  he  was  bound  to  be,  he  was 
even  more  the  soldier,  and  his  gay  eyes  had  clouded, 
as  he  had  wrung  Weldon's  hand  in  parting. 

"  Lucky  dog ! "  he  said  enviously.  "  I  am  off 
duty  for  two  weeks  more,  and  you  are  going  back 


126  On  the  Firing  Line 

to  the  thick  of  things.  One  must  take  it  as  it 
comes;  but  I  say,  old  man,  don't  forget  me  when 
the  bullets  begin  to  pelt  at  you  again.11 

And  Weldon  had  been  better  than  his  promise. 
He  had  thought  of  Carew,  day  and  night,  for  the 
entire  week,  thought  of  him  and  missed  him  acutely. 
Carew  was  an  ideal  comrade  in  that  he  never,  under 
any  circumstances,  took  himself  in  earnest. 

A  leg  which  will  cany  a  man  on  horseback  is  by 
no  means  fit  for  football.  Weldon,  finished  player 
that  he  was,  found  it  tame  work  to  umpire  a  team 
whose  sole  idea  of  tactics  was  to  get  there  in  any  way 
that  offered  itself.  Half  an  hour  sufficed;  then, 
appointing  an  understudy,  he  walked  away  in  search 
of  Paddy.  From  the  midst  of  a  torrent  of  instruc- 
tions to  his  quartette  of  black  subordinates,  Paddy's 
voice  sang  out  a  cheery  greeting. 

"  Come  along,  little  feller !  Come  and  get  some- 
thing to  eat.  It's  hungry  you  ought  to  be,  the 
day,  after  the  way  you  Ve  been  walking  all  over  the 
country  on  horseback  and  an  empty  stomach.  Try 
this,  as  a  sample  of  your  dinner,  and  sit  down  by 
the  edge  of  the  fire,  whilst,  and  tell  me  how  it 
tastes." 

The  iron  spoon  scraped  lustily  over  the  iron 
dixey.  Then  Weldon  returned  them  both  with  a 
low  bow. 

"  Like  yourself,  Paddy,  short  and  sweet." 

Paddy  brandished  the  spoon,  weapon-wise. 


On  the  Firing  Line  127 

"  Short  is  it,  you  little  Canuck  !  So  is  a  pepper- 
pot  short ;  but  it  holds  a  hell  of  a  flavor.  Leave 
Paddy  a  gun  in  his  hand,  and  his  short  legs  will 
keep  up  with  your  long  ones,  when  it's  the  firing 
line  that 's  before  him." 

"The  old  sing-song,  Paddy.  Give  us  something 
new." 

"So  will  I,  when  I  get  my  wishing.  Till  then, 
you  11  hear  it  over  and  over  again.  A  man  of  my 
temper,  little  one,  will  never  rest  content  at  a  firing 
line  that 's  all  surrounded  about  with  ten-quart  pots 
of  boiling  beef." 

"  Why  don't  you  resign,  then  ?  " 

"  Resigned  !  How  can  I  be  resigned  ?  I  'm  a 
chunk  of  dynamite  in  a  suet-pot,  hard  to  manage 
and  ready  to  go  off  at  any  time  that  something 
strikes  me.  Meantime,  I  am  like  what  they  say  is 
dirt :  matter  out  of  place." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  get  out  ?  "  Weldon  queried. 

"  I  am  out  of  place  now,  I  'm  telling  you,"  Paddy 
returned,  as  he  pensively  rested  his  cheek  upon  the 
bowl  of  the  spoon  in  his  hand. 

"  Yes ;  but  why  not  refuse  to  stay  here  as  cook  ?  " 

Sorrowfully  Paddy  shook  his  head,  spoon  and  all. 

"  That's  what  I  did  do,  little  one." 

"  And  what  happened  ?  " 

"This."  The  spoon  came  into  evidence  once 
more.  "  They  blarneyed  me  up  and  they  blarneyed 
me  down,  and  they  said  nobody  could  cook  like 


128  On  the  Firing  Line 

Paddy.  Anybody  could  shoot  a  baker's  dozen  of 
Boers ;  but  only  one  man  in  the  camp  could  fill  up 
the  boys  to  give  them  a  fit  and  level  stomach  for 
the  battle.  And  here  I  am,  and  here  I  'm  like  to 
be,  till  the  new  moon  in  the  heavens  turns  to  a 
curly  strip  of  bully  beef.  If  I  'd  known  the  Captain 
was  about  to  escape  to  Cape  Town,  it 's  Paddy  that 
would  have  escaped  with  him,  hanging  on  to  the 
tail  of  his  coat.  Saint  Patrick's  vipers !  What 's 
that?" 

A  hum,  a  spat,  and  a  little  spurt  of  red  dust  rolled 
lazily  upward.  Then  another  hum  followed.  There 
was  a  scurry  of  men,  a  squeak  of  leather,  the  light 
clashing  of  rifles  snatched  from  the  stack  ;  and  the 
troops  were  off. 

Beside  them,  the  nearer  hills  rose  in  brick-red 
patches  against  the  sky.  Farther  away,  the  brick 
color  changed  to  gray  and,  still  beyond,  to  misty 
purple.  Before  them  rolled  the  open,  khaki-colored 
veldt  dotted  in  one  direction  by  a  ragged  spot  of 
black  that  flowed  over  the  crest  of  each  ridge  and 
vanished  from  sight  for  a  moment  before  rising  from 
the  hollow  to  flow  over  the  crest  of  the  ridge  beyond. 
And  towards  the  ragged  spot  of  black  there  rushed 
onward,  at  an  ever-lessening  distance,  the  khaki- 
colored  streak  of  the  foremost  rank  of  C  Squadron, 
led  for  the  moment  by  a  little  gray  broncho  whose 
hoofs  touched  the  ground  only  to  spurn  it  backwards. 

The  chase  was  long  and  hot ;  but  the  end  was  in 


On  the  Firing  Line  129 

sight.  Directly  across  the  path  of  the  quarry 
stretched  a  low  line  of  willows  showing  the  course  of 
the  stream  beneath,  and,  a  few  hundred  feet  this  side 
of  the  willows,  scattered  clumps  of  green  marked  as 
many  scattered  dwellings.  By  the  largest  clump, 
the  quarry  halted  and  turned  to  bay,  and  the  pur- 
suers, unable  to  check  their  speed,  rode  down  upon 
it  and  crashed  through  its  ranks,  regardless  of  the 
pitiless,  fire,  then,  sweeping  around  on  the  arc  of  a 
mammoth  circle,  took  up  their  position  in  the  shelter 
of  a  walled  kraal,  only  a  few  hundred  yards  away. 
Then  for  a  moment  they  halted,  face  to  face  and  in 
absolute  silence. 

Even  after  her  mad  race,  the  little  gray  broncho 
was  breathing  deeply  and  easily  ;  but  Weldon  could 
feel  his  own  breath  come  short.  Ranged  in  open 
order  before  him  were  a  full  half-hundred  of  the 
enemy,  bearded,  black-coated,  bandoliered,  grim  and 
stolid  and  ripe  of  years.  Beside  him  were  the  new 
captain  of  the  troop  and  seven  men.  They  were 
young,  wiry  and  alert ;  but  there  were  only  nine  of 
them  in  all.  And  the  rest  of  the  troop,  it  seemed  to 
him,  were  half  the  veldt-length  away.  Vaguely  he 
wondered  whether  their  distant  khaki  coats  would 
look  as  purple  as  did  the  distant  khaki-colored  hills. 
Then,  quite  inconsequently,  as  he  raised  his  rifle, 
he  noticed  that  one  of  the  Boers  had  a  button  hang- 
ing loosely  on  its  threads  from  the  front  of  his  coat. 
He  was  rather  surprised,  the  next  instant,  to  see  the 


130  On  the  Firing  Line 

Boer  pitch  forward  headlong  in  the  dust.  It  was 
some  time  afterward  that  he  thought  to  connect  the 
falling  with  the  crack  of  his  own  rifle. 

Piggie  bounded  sidewise,  as  the  mount  of  the 
trooper  next  Weldon  dropped  and  lay  whimpering 
like  a  hurt  child.  Then  she  steadied  to  the  touch  of 
Weldon's  hand  upon  her  neck.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  he  had  guided  her,  unscathed,  through  a  leaden 
shower.  She  would  trust  him  yet  once  again.  As 
he  raised  his  rifle,  her  wiry  legs  were  as  steady  as 
four  iron  rods.  He  saw  another  Boer  fall  and  yet 
another  and  a  third  ;  but  one  khaki-colored  figure  lay 
stiffly  beside  him,  and  another  was  dragging  itself 
away  to  a  corner  of  the  kraal,  to  give  greater  space 
to  its  unwounded  comrades.  And  still  the  bullets 
whizzed  about  them,  thick  and  ever  thicker. 

Piggie  shied  again.  This  time  a  bullet  had  grazed 
her  neck,  and  the  sight  of  the  narrow  scar  filled 
Weldon's  mind  with  a  dull,  unreasoning  rage.  Bru- 
tal to  aim  at  the  plucky  mounts  who  bore  their  riders 
so  gallantly  into  the  fight  where  all  defensive  power 
was  denied  themselves  !  He  paused  long  enough  to 
pat  the  firm  gray  neck,  to  feel  the  answering  pressure 
against  his  hand.  Then  he  raised  his  rifle  again  and 
took  careful  aim,  as  he  breathed  a  wordless  prayer 
that  chance  might  guide  his  bullet  into  the  man 
who  had  scarred  his  faithful  friend.  Another  Boer 
dropped;  Weldon  hoped  it  was  by  his  own  bullet. 
Then  both  he  and  the  gray  broncho  pricked  up  their 


On  the  Firing  Line  131 

ears  as,  close  on  their  flank,  they  heard  the  beating 
of  galloping  hoofs. 

In  the  shock  of  the  scrimmage  that  followed,  there 
was  scant  time  to  take  thought  of  friend  or  of  foe.  On 
the  heels  of  his  new  captain  as,  of  old,  he  had  been 
on  the  heels  of  Captain  Frazer,  Weldon  and  the  gray 
broncho  were  in  the  thick  of  the  fight.  Then,  as  the 
Boers  sullenly  fell  backwards,  Weldon  became  aware 
of  a  familiar  voice  in  his  ears. 

"Whisht,  little  feller!  It's  Paddy,"  the  voice 
said  in  a  spooky  undertone,  as  its  owner  ranged  up 
alongside  the  gray  broncho. 

*'  Paddy  ! "  Weldon  stared  at  him  in  unfeigned 
astonishment.  "  What  in  the  name  of  heaven  are 
you  doing  here,  man  ? " 

With  perfect  composure  Paddy  squared  himself  in 
the  saddle. 

"  Little  Canuck  dear,  as  I  told  you  before,  heaven 
is  a  state  of  eternal  peace,  and  therefore  an  undesir- 
able abode  in  these  hot  times.  I  prefer  a  whiff  of 
brimstone,  myself;  and,  by  the  powers,  I  Ve  been 
getting  it.11  As  he  spoke,  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
showed  a  neat  trio  of  holes  in  the  left  brim. 

"  But  how  did  you  come  here,  Paddy  ? "  Weldon 
asked  again. 

"  Took  your  advice  to  heart,  my  jewel,  kicked  over 
my  pan  of  fat  and  jumped  into  the  fire.  Which,  being 
put  into  straight  English,  I  swiped  a  horse  and  rode  off 
with  the  rest  of  the  boys  on  the  tail  of  the  serpent."" 


132  On  the  Firing  Line 

Weldon  gasped,  as  he  realized  the  enormity  of  the 
crime.  Then  he  laughed.  In  his  haste  to  gain  pos- 
session of  a  mount,  Paddy  had  taken  no  thought  for 
his  armament.  His  sole  weapon  was  the  huge  iron 
spoon,  still  grasped  in  his  left  hand. 

"  Whose  horse  did  you  take,  Paddy  ?  " 

"  I  d'  know.  I  never  looked  to  see.  I  popped  my 
toe  into  the  stirrup  and  came  away,  hot-foot ;  but," 
Paddy  paused  for  a  deliberate  wink ;  "  as  I  was 
leaving  camp,  I  thought  I  heard  the  voice  of  that 
pigeon-toed  little  cockney  Parrott,  him  that  used  to 
stub  his  toes  on  the  wall  at  Piquetberg  Road,  a- 
calling  out  that  some  one  had  mislaid  his  horse  and 
he  could  n't  find  it.  I  was  sorry ;  but  I  was  in  a 
divil  of  a  haste  and  could  n't  stop  to  condole  with 
him  then." 

"  But,  Paddy,  they  '11  run  you  out  of  camp  for 
this,"  Weldon  remonstrated  dutifully. 

Paddy's  shoulder  mounted  towards  his  left  ear. 

"  I  'm  thinking  I  have  run  myself  out,  and  that 's 
just  what  I  was  meaning  to  do.  I  've  been  a  captain 
with  four  lieutenants  under  me.  Any  one  of  them 
can  sling  the  pepper  and  the  salt,  and  they  're  wel- 
come ;  but  not  one  has  the  fighting  blood  in  his 
veins  as  I  have.  Let  them  mind  their  kettles  and 
leave  me  to  mind  the  enemy." 

"  And  if  they  won't  let  you  go  back  ?  " 

"  Then  I  '11  ship  myself  straight  down  to  Cape 
Town,  and  take  service  with  Captain  Frazer.  He 


On  the  Firing  Line  133 

can  fight  with  the  best  of  them,  and  he  knows  I  'm  a 
man.  It 's  riding  at  his  heels  I  '11  be,  henceforth  and 
forevermore." 

Turning,  Weldon  looked  long  into  the  jovial  Irish 
face,  and  at  the  hunchy  figure  that  joggled  to  and 
fro  in  the  saddle,  with  no  heed  to  the  rhythm  of  his 
horse's  pace. 

"  Who  taught  you  to  ride,  Paddy  ?  "  he  asked  at 
length. 

For  an  instant,  a  lump  in  Paddy's  left  cheek  be- 
trayed the  whereabouts  of  his  tongue.  Then  quietly 
he  made  answer,  — 

"  Sure,  little  feller,  it  must  have  been  the  grace  of 
Saint  Patrick.  Nobody  else  has  ever  took  a  hand  in 
the  training  of  me.  But  I  '11  back  him  against  all 
the  riding  masters  in  London  and  Aldershot." 

And  the  result  showed  that  Paddy's  confidence 
was  not  misplaced. 


184  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

BY  midwinter,  the  war  had  become  a  series  of 
guerrilla  raids,  of  sweeping  drives  and  of 
occasional  skirmishes.  The  epoch  of  the  in- 
fantry had  passed,  and  it  was  the  day  of  the  mounted 
man.  The  home-going  of  the  great  Field  Marshal, 
six  months  before,  had  been  followed  by  the  return 
to  England  of  transports  loaded  with  foot  soldiers. 
The  hour,  the  country  and  the  enemy  all  demanded 
the  man  on  the  horse.  With  Lord  Kitchener  in  the 
field  and  the  colonies  aiding  the  mother  country, 
the  outcome  was  only  a  matter  of  time;  but  few 
could  as  yet  say  when  the  fulness  of  that  time 
should  be  at  hand. 

"  But  it  leaves  me  a  good  deal  puzzled  in  my 
mind,"  Weldon  said  thoughtfully. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  Ethel  Dent  threw  the 
question  at  him  a  little  defiantly. 

"  About  going  home." 

"  Surely,  you  are  n't  going  now  ?  " 

He  winced  at  the  accent. 

"I  am  not  sure.  I  volunteered  for  six  months. 
My  time  is  up ;  I  paid  my  official  visit  to  the 
Citadel  yesterday." 

"  Are  you  needed  at  home  ?  " 

"  No.     At  least,  not  in  any  real  sense." 


On  the  Firing  Line  135 

"  But  you  are  needed  here."" 

"  There  are  enough  without  me,  and  the  need  will 
not  last  long." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure.  On  the  Dunottar  Castle, 
there  were  plenty  of  people  who  laughed  at  you  men 
for  coming  out  to  volunteer,  after  the  war  was  over. 
You  have  proved  that  they  laughed  at  nothing. 
Prove  it  again." 

Rising,  he  walked  the  length  of  the  room  and 
stood  looking  out  from  the  long  front  window.  The 
bamboo  screens  and  the  willow  chairs  were  gone 
from  their  veranda  corner ;  the  flower-boxes  were 
empty  now,  and  Table  Bay  gleamed  coldly  back  at 
him  in  the  late  afternoon  sun  of  midwinter.  Then 
he  turned  around  to  face  the  girl,  seated  where  her 
golden  hair  seemed  to  him  to  catch  and  hold  all 
the  light  centering  about  the  gay  little  tea-table. 

"  Don't,"  he  said  with  some  impatience.  "  Your 
arguments  all  echo  my  own  wish.  I  am  pulled  in 
two  ways  at  once.  At  home,  the  mother  is  growing 
restless.  Since  Vlaakfontein,  she  has  lost  her  nerve, 
and  her  heart  is  set  on  my  meeting  her  in  London 
in  October." 

Deliberately  Ethel  made  a  neat  triangle  out  of 
three  unused  spoons. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  without  looking  up. 

"  Piggie  and  I  have  had  a  smell  of  powder,"  he 
answered  briefly.  "We  want  more." 

"  Well  ? "  she  said  again. 


136  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  The  question  is,  are  we  likely  to  get  it."" 

"  Not  in  England  ;  not  even  in  Cape  Town,"  she 
answered,  smiling  at  the  spoons  before  her. 

"  Then  where  ?  " 

"  Wherever  the  Boers  are  thickest.11 

"  Yes  ;  but,  after  all,  you  are  talking  platitudes, 
Miss  Dent,""  he  said,  with  recurring  impatience. 

This  time,  she  lifted  her  dark  blue  eyes  to  his 
face  and  allowed  them  to  rest  there  for  a  full  minute. 

"  But  you  forbade  me  to  argue,11  she  said  demurely. 

He  dropped  down  into  a  chair  and  faced  her 
resolutely. 

"  Now  look  here,  Miss  Dent,  I  can't  talk  shop  in 
tea-table  English.  In  fact,  shop  has  no  place  at  a 
tea-table,  anyway.  Still,  you  were  the  one  to  start 
it.  Let's  have  it  out.  I  don't  want  to  funk,  at 
this  late  day.  If  there  is  any  fighting  to  be  done,  I 
want  a  hand  in  it.  I  went  into  a  game  of  a  certain 
length ;  I  hope  I  played  up,  and  stuck  to  the  pro- 
fessional rules.  That  game  is  played  out.  I  am 
not  Trooper  Weldon  of  the  Scottish  Horse.  I  am 
plain  Harvard  Weldon  again  and,  to  be  quite  frank, 
I  don't  like  the  change  from  khaki  to  tweed.  But 
about  going  in  for  another  game  :  it  all  depends  on 
what  the  game  will  be.  If  it  plays  itself  out,  well 
and  good  ;  if  it  just  dribbles  on  and  on,  without  ac- 
complishing anything,  even  an  end,  then  I  can  see 
no  use  in  going  in  for  it.  Fighting  is  one  thing ; 
having  a  picnic  all  over  the  face  of  South  Africa  is 


On  the  Firing  Line  187 

quite  another  matter.  And,  for  the  life  of  me,  I 
can't  see  which  is  bound  to  come.1' 

There  was  a  minor  cadence  to  the  final  phrase. 
Then  he  fell  silent,  and  sat  staring  at  the  rug,  while 
Ethel,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  studied  him  at  her 
ease.  All  in  all,  she  was  pleased  with  the  result  of 
her  study.  Always  frank  and  likable,  Weldon  had 
developed  wonderfully  during  those  past  months 
of  hard  work  and  slender  comfort.  Underneath  his 
sunburn,  his  face  had  taken  on  new  lines  of  resolu- 
tion. His  eyes  were  as  clear  as  ever ;  but  their 
boyishness  was  all  in  the  past.  It  was  a  man  who 
had  come  striding  into  the  room,  that  afternoon, 
and  paused  beside  her  tea-table.  And  Ethel,  look- 
ing up,  had  greeted  him  as  she  might  have  greeted 
Baden-Powell  in  his  place. 

To  a  great  extent,  Cape  Town  was  resuming  at 
least  a  semblance  of  its  oldtime  social  life.  Heroes 
were  more  plentiful  than  is  altogether  normal,  how- 
ever, and  there  was  a  dust-colored  tint  to  most 
assemblages.  During  the  past  months,  the  Dents' 
house  had  come  to  be  one  of  the  focal  points  of 
society,  and  there  were  few  men  of  note  who  had 
failed  to  mount  the  wide  white  steps  and  pass  be- 
tween the  flanking  pillars  at  the  top,  on  their 
way  to  the  drawing-room  beyond.  Once  there, 
they  usually  came  again,  immediately,  if  they  lin- 
gered in  Cape  Town ;  on  their  way  back  from  the 
front,  if  no  quicker  opportunity  offered  itself.  Many 


138  On  the  Firing  Line 

a  bullet-interrupted  conversation  was  resumed  there  ; 
many  a  boy,  just  out  from  home,  confided  his  min- 
gled homesickness  and  aspirations  to  dainty,  white- 
haired  Mre.  Dent  in  her  easy-chair ;  many  a  seasoned 
officer  forgot  his  ambitions  and  his  disappointments 
and  even  his  still  sensitive  wounds  in  the  gay  talk  of 
the  golden-haired  girl  by  the  tray.  As  a  rule,  Ethel 
talked  shop  with  no  man.  She  merely  looked  sym- 
pathetic, and  left  him  to  do  the  talking,  which  he 
did  unhesitatingly  and  without  reservation.  From 
the  first  hour  of  their  meeting,  Weldon  had  been  the 
one  exception.  Even  in  the  hospital  at  Johannes- 
burg, she  had  gone  over  with  him  in  detail  his 
experiences  in  camp  and  field,  and  it  had  been 
Weldon  by  no  means  who  had  done  all  the  talking. 
To-day,  as  she  had  welcomed  the  tall  Canadian  in 
his  irreproachable  frock-coat,  she  had  known  a  sud- 
den pang  of  regret.  Undeniably,  his  tailor  was  an 
artist.  Nevertheless,  she  liked  him  better  as  she  had 
seen  him  last,  in  his  stained  khaki  and  his  well-worn 
shoes,  bending  over  her  hand  in  farewell,  then  taking 
The  Nig's  bridle  from  the  waiting  Kruger  Bobs,  to 
leap  into  the  tarnished  saddle,  lift  his  hat  and  ride 
away  out  of  sight.  No  one  but  Ethel  herself  had 
known  that  it  was  not  distance  alone  which  had 
rendered  him  invisible  to  her.  And  the  next  week 
in  the  hospital  had  dragged  perceptibly.  At  the 
end  of  that  time,  she  had  been  quite  ready  to  say 
good  by  to  Johannesburg  and  all  that  it  contained. 


On  the  Firing  Line  139 

But,  meanwhile,  her  smile  gave  no  clue  to  her  memo- 
ries, as  she  offered  her  hand  to  Weldon. 

"  I  knew  you  were  here,"  she  said  cordially ;  "  and 
I  have  any  number  of  things  to  talk  over  with  you. 
There  is  no  talking  for  me  now,  though,  with  all 
these  people  on  my  hands.  Can't  you  stay  on  and 
dine  with  us  ?  That  will  give  us  an  hour  to  gossip 
comfortably,  and  Captain  Frazer  is  to  be  the  only 
other  guest.  I  asked  him,  on  the  chance  of  your 
appearing.  Oh,  good  afternoon,  Colonel  Douglas  ! " 
And  Weldon  found  himself  swept  on  out  of  her 
radius. 

He  took  refuge  beside  Mrs.  Dent  and,  from  that 
safe  slack-water,  he  made  a  thorough  survey  of  the 
room.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  present  at 
one  of  the  Dents1  reception  days,  and  he  acknowl- 
edged himself  surprised  at  what  he  saw.  Here  and 
there  an  acquaintance  nodded  to  him ;  but,  for  the 
most  part,  he  was  a  stranger  to  the  guests,  save  for 
the  dozen  whom  he  knew  well  by  sight  and  better 
still  by  reputation.  Moreover,  while  he  watched 
her,  he  began  to  wonder  whether  he  were  not  some- 
thing of  a  stranger  to  Ethel  herself.  This  stately 
girl  was  not  the  comrade  with  whom  he  had  tramped 
the  deck  of  the  Dunottar  Castle,  nor  yet  the  friend 
of  his  early  days  in  Cape  Town,  nor  yet  again  the 
blithe  companion  of  his  last  tedious  hours  of  conva- 
lescence. This  girl  was  altogether  admirable  ;  but  a 
bit  awe-inspiring  withal.  He  watched  the  non- 


140  On  the  Firing  Line 

chalant  ease  with  which  she  provided  a  white-haired 
veteran  of  many  wars  and  many  orders  with  a  cup  of 
steaming  tea,  and  then  sat  and  chatted  with  him 
while  he  drank  it.  He  felt  himself  a  bashful  boy,  as 
he  watched  her,  and,  like  any  other  bashful  boy,  he 
fell  to  talking  to  Mrs.  Dent  about  his  mother. 

Then  the  last  visitor  made  a  reluctant  exit,  and 
Ethel  crossed  the  room  to  his  side.  With  the  pass- 
ing of  the  little  throng  of  guests  her  assured  man- 
ners had  passed,  and  she  met  him  with  the  same 
informal  manner  which  had  marked  those  last  days 
at  Johannesburg. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  as  she  dropped  down  beside  her 
mother's  chair ;  "you  must  tell  me  all  about  every- 
thing, Mr.  Weldon.  And,  first  of  all,  are  you  quite 
strong  again  ? " 

Question  had  followed  question,  eager,  girlish  and 
sincere,  until  Weldon's  answers  had  covered  all  the 
interval  since  they  last  had  met.  At  length,  the  deli- 
cate little  mother  had  gone  away  to  rest  before  time 
for  dinner.  Weldon's  strong  arm  had  half-sup- 
ported, half-carried  her  up  the  staircase.  Then, 
returning  to  the  drawing-room,  he  had  joined 
Ethel  beside  the  deserted  tea-table. 

"After  six  months  of  the  billy  and  the  frying- 
pan,  it  is  wonderfully  good  to  handle  china  again," 
he  said,  as  he  halted  on  the  hearth  rug  and  stood 
smiling  down  at  her. 

She  smiled  back  at  him  in  full  approval.     Weldon 


On  the  Firing  Line  141 

looked  very  much  the  lord  of  creation,  as  he  stood 
there  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  one  elbow  resting 
on  the  mantel  beside  him.  The  position  suited  him, 
and,  speaking  in  quite  another  sense,  it  suited  her  also. 

"  Then  a  taste  of  civilization  is  pleasant  now  and 
then,  even  to  a  grizzled  warrior  like  yourself?"  she 
questioned  lightly. 

"  Yes,  for  the  time  being.  One  never  knows, 
though,  how  long  that  time  being  will  last." 

"  What  shall  you  do,  when  the  war  ends  ?  " 

"Go  home,  take  up  a  share  in  the  pater's  busi- 
ness, and  grow  stout  and  lazy,"  he  answered  her 
unsmilingly. 

"  An  alluring  prospect." 

"  Yes ;  but  there  will  be  other  things :  an  occa- 
sional dinner,  and  even  a  tea  now  and  then." 

Leaning  back  in  her  chair,  she  looked  up  at  him 
through  her  long  yellow  lashes. 

"  And  shall  you  never  remember  to  miss  Africa  ?  " 
she  asked  indolently. 

His  eyes  rested  upon  her  gravely. 

"  Yes,  often.  Moreover  —  forgive  my  bluntness, 
but  it  is  one  of  the  privileges  of  a  soldier  —  more- 
over, Miss  Dent,  I  shall  miss  you." 

Her  color  came ;  but  she  made  no  effort  to  ignore 
his  words. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  with  equal  gravity.  "  I 
am  glad  to  have  you  say  so.  But  I  hope  it  may  be 
long  before  that  day  comes." 


142  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  I  can't  tell.  I  had  expected  to  sail  for  home,  in 
a  week  or  two.  Now  I  am  not  so  sure." 

"  Whether  you  wish  to  ?  " 

"  Whether  I  ought.  When  I  left  the  Transvaal, 
the  work  seemed  nearly  done.  Down  here,  the 
stories  are  less  promising."  He  paused;  then  he 
added  thoughtfully,  "  But  it  leaves  me  a  good  deal 
puzzled  in  my  mind." 

Coffee  was  served  in  the  drawing-room,  that  night. 
Ethel  roused  herself  from  a  reverie  as  Weldon  and 
Captain  Frazer  joined  her.  To  their  half-mocking 
questions,  she  admitted  the  fact  of  her  thoughtful- 
ness.  To  neither  one  did  she  see  fit  to  acknowledge 
its  cause.  The  mood  passed  swiftly,  however,  and  it 
left  her  more  brilliantly  gay  than  either  man  had  ever 
seen  her  until  then.  Each  frankly  confessed  himself 
dazzled;  each  one  of  them,  more  grave  by  nature 
than  she  often  showed  herself,  was  secretly  uneasy 
lest  her  sudden  overflow  of  spirits  was  in  some  fashion 
directed  towards  his  companion  ;  yet  so  skilfully  did 
she  lead  the  conversation  that,  at  the  evening^  end, 
neither  Weldon  nor  the  Captain  could  produce  any 
valid  claim  to  being  considered  the  favored  guest. 

"It  has  been  good  to  have  you  here,"  she  said 
gayly,  as  she  gave  them  each  a  hand  at  parting. 
"  Even  if  I  was  not  present  at  your  meeting,  I  have 
always  felt  that  I  had  a  finger-tip,  at  least,  in  your 
friendship."  Then,  as  she  dropped  their  hands,  she 
faced  the  Captain  with  sudden  seriousness. 


On  the  Firing  Line  143 

"  Captain  Frazer,"  she  said  slowly ;  "  Mr.  Wei- 
don's  time  is  over,  and  he  has  left  the  service.  He 
thinks  the  fighting  is  all  done.  I  am  only  a  woman ; 
I  can't  explain  things  very  clearly,  and  so,"  she  hesi- 
tated a  little  ;  "  and  so  I  think  I  shall  leave  his  soul 
in  your  hands.  There  are  plenty  of  people  still  in 
South  Africa ;  there  are  never  too  many  men.""  And, 
with  a  grave  little  nod,  half  intent,  half  girlish,  she 
turned  away  from  the  door,  leaving  the  heavy  drapery 
to  sway  to  and  fro  behind  her. 


144  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

THREE  days  later,  Weldon  ran  lightly  up 
the  stone  steps  and  rang  at  the  Dents1 
door. 

"  Is  Miss  Dent  in  ?  "  he  asked  the  maid.  "  I  know 
it  is  n't  her  day ;  but  tell  her  I  am  leaving  town 
almost  immediately,  and  I  wish  to  say  good  by." 

Notwithstanding  his  message,  Ethel  was  long 
about  appearing,  and  her  face  and  manner,  when 
she  halted  on  the  threshold,  were  a  bit  unapproach- 
able. Then,  as  her  eyes  lighted  on  the  brown  uniform 
and  the  wide  slouch  hat,  her  whole  expression 
changed,  and  she  came  forward  with  an  eagerness 
which  she  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal. 

"Mr.  Weldon." 

He  bowed  in  mock  humility. 

"  Trooper  Weldon,  if  you  please." 

"  I  am  delighted.     Is  it  your  old  troop  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  No.  I  know  the  Transvaal  and  all  its  resources 
by  heart.  I  have  chosen  the  Orange  Free  State.  It 
is  a  new  country  ;  and,  besides,  all  the  best  of  the 
fighting  is  going  to  be  there,  on  the  heels  of 
De  Wet." 

"  Are  you  a    prophet  ? "    she  asked,   while   she 


On  the  Firing  Line  145 

dropped  into  a  chair  and  [motioned  to  him  to  be 
seated. 

"  No ;  but  I  suspect  that  Captain  Frazer  is,"  he 
answered,  as  he  obeyed  her. 

She  raised  her  brows  questioningly. 

"  Does  he  go,  too  ?  " 

"  Not  now.  His  staff  work  holds  him  here  among 
the  fleshpots,"  he  replied.  "  Later,  he  may  be  able 
to  come  up  to  us." 

"  Us  ?  " 

"  The  South  African  Light  Horse." 

"  Why  did  you  choose  them  ?  " 

"  Because  they  are  to  operate  in  the  Orange  River 
country,  and  because  they  would  have  me." 

"  Is  that  a  matter  to  consider  ?  " 

Weldon  laughed  while,  placing  his  hat  on  the 
floor,  he  settled  himself  more  comfortably  in  his 
chair.  His  face  was  unusually  animated,  that  day, 
and  his  trim  new  uniform  and  his  carefully-wound 
putties  added  inches  to  his  height  and  showed  his 
lithe,  lean  figure  at  its  very  best. 

"I  considered  it,"  he  answered  then.  "It  is  a 
trick  of  mine,  as  soon  as  I  decide  I  want  a  thing,  to 
be  in  living  terror  of  losing  it.  However,  the  ordeal 
was  short  and  not  too  severe.  Captain  Frazer  in- 
troduced me  to  a  little  lieutenant  who  looked  me 
over,  asked  me  if  I  could  ride,  if  I  could  shoot  a  rifle 
and  if  I  had  had  any  experience.  I  fancy  the  matter 

was  settled  beforehand.     Then  I  went  out  and  treated 

10 


146  On  the  Firing  Line 

The  Nig  and  Piggie  to  some  new  shoes,  and  myself 
to  a  new  uniform,  and  the  deed  was  done." 

"  Are  you  glad,  or  sorry  ?  "  she  asked  slowly. 

"  That  there  was  no  more  red  tape  ?  " 

"  That  you  decided  as  you  did  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her  thoughtfully  for  a  minute.  Then 
he  answered,  — 

"  But  I  imagine  it  rather  decided  itself.  I  spoke 
of  it  to  you  once  before,  I  remember,  when  we  were 
up  in  hospital,  how  there  never  seemed  to  be  much 
choice  open  to  me.  I  fancy  I  am  deciding  things ; 
I  mull  over  them  till  I  am  disgusted  with  the 
whole  matter.  Then,  after  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  what  I  am  going  to  do,  I  suddenly  realize  that 
there  was  never  any  question  about  it  from  the  start. 
I  have  simply  said  *  yes '  to  an  irresistible  force." 

"  Perhaps,1'  she  assented  slowly.  "  I  am  not  so 
sure."  Then  she  turned  to  the  tangible  fact.  "  But 
when  do  you  go  ? " 

"  To-morrow  morning." 

"I  am  sorry  it  must  be  so  soon,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  Still,  I  am  glad  you  are  going.  You  never  would 
have  been  satisfied  to  sail  for  home  now." 

u  No,"  he  answered.     "  I  should  not." 

Then  the  talk  halted  again. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Carew  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly  at 
length,  less  from  interest  in  Carew  than  from  a  desire 
to  escape  so  insistent  a  pause. 

"  At  the  Mount  Nelson." 


On  the  Firing  Line  147 

"  Here  iu  Cape  Town  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  came  down  with  me.  We  volunteered 
together,  you  know,  and  his  time  was  ended,  too." 

"  Does  he  go  home  ?  " 

"  No ;  not  Harry  Carew.  We  had  decided  to  keep 
together  in  our  plans ;  in  fact,  it  was  one  of  the  con- 
ditions of  our  coming  out.  But,  from  the  start,  he 
has  hated  the  idea  of  going  back  home  as  long  as 
there  was  an  armed  Boer  left  in  the  field." 

"  And  he  goes  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  Springfontein.  We  have  our  head- 
quarters there  for  the  present.  For  Carew's  sake,  I 
hope  it  will  be  more  riding  and  scouting  than  actual 
fighting.  The  man  is  made  of  some  material  that 
draws  all  the  bullets  in  sight." 

Ethel  smiled. 

"  Don't  let  him  stop  near  you,  then,"  she  advised. 

"  Why  not  ?  He  is  as  good  as  a  shield.  It  is 
hard  on  him,  though.  He  was  hit  four  or  five 
times  before  Vlaakfontein,  and  has  had  one  scratch 
since." 

"  What  is  the  trouble  ?     Is  he  foolhardy  ?  " 

"  Foolhardy  in  war,  Miss  Dent  ?  " 

"Yes,  just  that.  There  is  no  sense  in  taking 
needless  risks." 

"  But  it  is  mighty  hard  to  draw  the  line  between 
avoiding  needless  risks  and  funking  necessary  ones," 
he  answered.  "  But  Carew  is  n't  reckless.  He  is 
plucky,  but  very  level-headed,  and  he  means  to  take 


148  On  the  Firing  Line 

care  of  himself,  when  he  can.  One  can't  always,  you 
know.  And  then  he  is  wonderfully  unlucky." 

"  You  believe  in  luck,  then  ?  " 

"Yes,  or  Fate.  What  else  makes  a  man  move 
out  of  the  way,  just  in  time  for  the  bullet  to  graze 
his  cheek  ?  He  does  n't  see  the  bullet  coming ; 
neither  does  the  man  who  stops  it.  Both  of  them 
are  busy  about  something  else.  For  the  man  who 
escapes  it,  it  is  Providence  ;  for  the  man  who  gets 
killed,  it  is  Fate." 

She  tried  to  rouse  him  from  his  sudden  gravity. 

"  And  for  both,  it  is  mere  chance."" 

"If  you  call  it  that.    Miss  Dent  —  "   He  hesitated. 

"Yes,"  she  assented  gravely. 

"It  was  only  a  chance,  but  a  strange  one,""  he 
went  on,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  topmost  ridge  of 
his  brown  puttie.  "  We  were  climbing  the  face  of  a 
kopje,  one  day.  It  was  very  steep,  and  we  crawled 
up  a  narrow  trail  in  single  file.  Two  days  before, 
our  guns  had  been  shelling  the  whole  kopje,  and 
they  must  have  cracked  it  up  badly.  All  at  once, 
the  man  above  me  loosened  a  great  lump  of  rock. 
I  was  exactly  underneath  it.  It  gave  a  little  bound 
outward,  went  completely  over  me  and  struck  full  on 
the  head  of  the  next  man  in  line." 

The  girl  sat,  bending  forward  in  her  chair,  her 
strong,  quiet  hands  clasped  loosely  in  her  lap. 

"  And  he  ?  "  she  asked  quite  low. 

*  He  dropped  to  the  foot  of  the  kopje,  dead.     In 


On  the  Firing  Line  149 

his  fall,  he  dragged  down  the  next  man  after  him, 
and  his  leg  was  crushed." 

"  And  you  were  saved ! "  she  said  a  bit  breathlessly. 
"  Does  n't  it  make  you  feel  a  vague  responsibility,  as 
if  you  must  live  up  to  something  that  you  could  n't 
quite  understand  ?  " 

Without  looking  up,  he  bowed  in  assent. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  then.  "  Don't  think  me  foolishly 
superstitious,  Miss  Dent,  or  too  egotistic.  I  try 
not  to  pay  much  attention  to  it.  Once  in  a 
while,  though,  not  too  often,  it  all  comes  back 
over  me,  and  I  feel  then  as  if  my  life  might  have 
been  kept  for  something  that  is  still  ahead  of 
me." 

"  And  does  n't  it  leave  you  feeling  anxious  about 
making  all  your  decisions  ?  "  she  asked  slowly,  as  she 
leaned  back  again  in  her  chair. 

"  At  first.  Then  I  remember  how  that,  and  some 
other  things  have  been  settled  for  me." 

"What  then?" 

"  Then  I  shut  my  teeth  and  face  forward.  All 
one  can  do,  is  to  forget  the  future  and  take  the 
present  as  it  comes,  making  the  best  of  each  minute 
and  leaving  the  hour  to  look  out  for  itself,"  he  an- 
swered simply.  "  Sometimes  one  makes  better  prog- 
ress by  drifting  than  he  does  by  punting  against 
the  current." 

She  bit  her  lip. 

"Sometimes  I  think,  though  —  "    Suddenly  she 


150  On  the  Firing  Line 

roused  herself  and  gave  a  nervous  little  laugh. 
"  Captain  Frazer  is  coming  up  the  steps,11  she 
added. 

"You  think ?"  Weldon  reminded  her,  as  she 
rose. 

But  she  shook  her  head  and  laughed  again,  this 
time  more  in  her  natural  manner. 

"  I  think  that  I  wish  you  would  bring  Mr.  Carew 
to  call  on  me,  next  time  you  come,""  she  said 
evasively. 

"Thank  you.  He  will  be  glad  to  come.  The 
only  question  is  when  the  next  time  will  arrive." 

"  You  said  Captain  Frazer  was  a  prophet,"  she 
said,  as  she  moved  towards  the  door.  "  Ask  him." 

Tall,  alert,  eager,  the  Captain  entered  the  room 
in  time  to  catch  her  words. 

"  A  prophet  of  what  and  to  whom,  Miss  Dent  ? " 
he  asked,  as  he  bowed  over  her  outstretched  hand. 

"  To  Mr.  Weldon,  in  regard  to  the  future  fight- 
ing," she  answered  gayly. 

"You  here,  Weldon  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  say  good  by." 

Captain  Frazer  nodded. 

"  I  saw  Mitchell,  this  morning.  He  spoke  well  of 
you ;  of  Carew,  too,  for  the  matter  of  that.  He  told 
me  your  troop  would  be  off  in  the  morning,  and 
asked  me  to  diagnose  your  best  points." 

"  Could  you  find  any  ? "  Weldon  asked  imper- 
turbably. 


On  the  Firing  Line  151 

"  A  few.  I  told  him  you  could  sit  tight  and 
shoot  straight,"  the  Captain  answered,  laughing. 
Then  he  added  gravely,  "  And  I  also  told  him  you 
could  ride  the  fiend  incarnate,  and  that,  as  far  as  I 
knew,  you  did  n't  lose  your  head  when  you  were 
under  fire." 

For  the  instant,  Weldon  forgot  his  hostess,  as  he 
looked  up  to  meet  the  Captain's  blue  eyes  squarely. 

"  Thank  you.     But  it  is  more  than  I  deserve." 

"  Then  you  must  try  to  live  up  to  it,"  Ethel  ad- 
vised him  languidly.  "  It  merely  increases  your 
responsibilities,  for  now  you  have  two  reputations  to 
support,  your  own  for  pluck  and  the  Captain's  for 
being  a  judge  of  his  fellowmen.  It  is  an  awful 
weight  that  you  are  carrying  on  your  shoulders,  Mr. 
Weldon." 

"'If  it  grows  too  heavy,  I  will  slide  some  of  it  off 
on  your  own,"  he  returned,  as  he  picked  up  his  hat 
and  rose  to  his  feet.  "  Your  responsibility  is  back 
of  mine,  Miss  Dent.  It  was  you  who  advised  me  to 
stay  in  South  Africa." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  presented  the  case  and  kept  my 
advice  to  myself,"  she  rebelled  promptly. 

"Certain  presentments  are  stronger  than  much 
advising." 

"  Perhaps.  But  in  the  end,  you  remember,  I  com- 
mended your  soul  to  Captain  Frazer's  keeping." 

He  bowed  with  the  odd,  old-fashioned  deference 
which  it  pleased  him  to  assume  at  times. 


152  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Captain  Frazer  may  have  saved  it ;  but  it  may 
have  been  you  who  made  it  worth  his  efforts  at 
salvation." 

She  laughed  again.  Nevertheless,  her  eyes  showed 
her  pleasure. 

"Then  we,  Captain  Frazer  and  I,  must  divide  the 
responsibility  for  your  future,"  she  replied.  "  In 
any  case,  may  it  be  all  good  !  " 

The  drapery  fell  backward  over  his  departing 
figure,  and,  for  an  instant,  Ethel  stood  staring  at  the 
swaying  folds.  Then,  turning,  she  walked  back  to 
the  fire. 

"  All  good,"11  she  repeated.  "  I  know  you  echo  the 
wish,  Captain  Frazer.  But  —  is  n't  it  hard  to  say 
good  by  ?  " 

"  In  these  days  most  of  all,"  he  assented  slowly. 
"And  one  never  can  tell  when  his  own  turn  may 
come." 

"Nor  what  its  end  may  be,"  she  added.  Then 
impetuously  she  rose  again  and  moved  up  and  down 
the  room.  "  Look  at  that  sunshine  outside,  Captain 
Frazer,"  she  said  restlessly.  "  It  ought  to  forbid 
any  such  gloomy  moods.  I  believe  all  this  war  and 
so  many  partings  are  spoiling  my  nerve.  I  really 
feel  quite  blue,  to-day ;  and  Mr.  Weldon  made  it 
worse." 

"  By  saying  good  by  ?  " 

Glancing  up,  she  was  astonished  at  the  wishful, 
hungry  look  in  the  blue  eyes  before  her. 


x       On  the  Firing  Line  153 

"  Yes,  a  little,"  she  said  lightly ;  "  for  I  hate  the 
very  word.  But,  if  it  must  be  spoken,  it  should 
always  be  short  and  staccato.  Instead,  he  sat  here, 
and  we  talked  about  Fate  and  wounds  and  all  sorts 
of  direful  things."  She  shook  herself  and  shivered 
slightly.  Then  she  sat  down  in  the  chair  which 
Weldon  had  just  left  vacant.  "  It  is  bad  manners 
to  have  nerves,  Captain  Frazer.  Forgive  me  first, 
and  then  tell  me  something  altogether  flippant,  to 
make  me  forget  things." 

But  her  mood  had  caught  the  Captain  in  its 
grasp. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  want  to  forget  ?  "  he  asked  her 
gravely. 

"  Yes,"  she  made  vehement  answer.     "  Always  ! " 

But  not  even  her  decided  answer  brought  back  the 
eager  light  into  his  dark  blue  eyes. 

Nevertheless,  an  hour  later  found  him  still  sitting 
there.  Ethel's  depression  had  vanished,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  a  mood  of  wayward  merriment  for  which 
the  honest,  straightforward  soldier  was  totally  at  a 
loss  to  account.  Sincere  himself,  he  looked  for  sin- 
cerity in  others.  If  Ethel's  gravity  had  been  un- 
feigned, how  could  it  so  soon  give  place  to  her 
present  buoyancy  ?  Not  the  strictest  code  of  hospi- 
tality could  demand  that  a  hostess  should  straight- 
way toss  aside  the  thought  of  the  parting  guest  who 
had  gone  away  to  battle  and,  perhaps,  to  sudden 
death.  And,  if  the  girl  had  been  insincere  in  her 


154  On  the  Firing  Line 

parting  from  Weldon,  why  should  she  be  sincere  in 
her  present  absorption  in  his  own  interests  ?  And, 
if  her  regrets  for  Weldon  were  as  great  as  they  had 
seemed  to  be,  then  what  was  the  use  of  his  remaining 
by  her  side  any  longer  ?  The  horns  of  the  dilemma 
extended  themselves  to  infinity  and  branched  again 
and  again  as  they  extended.  Meanwhile,  his  eyes 
were  full  of  trouble,  and  his  answers  to  her  questions 
were  vague  and  faltering.  Until  her  sudden  trip  to 
Johannesburg,  Captain  Frazer  had  taken  the  girl  as 
a  matter  of  course.  Since  then,  he  had  begun  to 
doubt,  and  the  doubts  were  thickening. 

But,  after  all,  there  was  no  real  reason  for  doubt. 
During  her  one  short  season  in  London,  the  Captain 
had  met  Ethel  constantly ;  he  had  been  quite  obvi- 
ously the  favorite  of  the  old  aunt  who  had  presided 
over  the  girl's  introduction  to  society,  and  his  later 
meetings  with  Ethel  at  sundry  week-end  gatherings 
had  convinced  him  that  he  had  no  serious  rival. 
Then  had  come  the  war ;  and  Ethel's  absence  from 
town  had  made  a  farewell  impossible.  Captain 
Frazer  had  sailed  away,  leaving  the  past  behind  him  ; 
but  the  future  was  still  his,  to  be  lost  or  won,  accord- 
ing to  the  use  he  made  of  his  manhood's  chances. 

And  then,  on  the  dazzling  summer  morning  which 
had  ushered  in  the  new  century,  he  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Ethel  riding  towards  home.  Three  days 
later,  as  he  had  gone  away  down  the  broad  white 
steps,  he  had  felt  convinced  that  the  future  already 


On  the  Firing  Line  155 

lay  in  his  grasp.  It  had  been  the  selfsame  Ethel, 
unchanged  and  changeless  to  his  loyal  mind,  who 
had  met  him  with  smiling,  eager  cordiality.  The 
year  of  separation  was  cast  aside;  their  friendship 
began  again  at  the  precise  spot  where  it  had  been 
broken  off. 

Since  then,  he  had  seen  her  often,  occasionally 
alone,  sometimes  with  her  mother,  sometimes  the 
central  figure  of  a  little  crowd  who  were  obviously 
striving  to  win  her  favor.  Her  father's  fortune  was 
in  part  the  cause  of  this ;  but  the  greater,  surer 
cause  lay  within  the  girl's  own  personality.  Ethel 
Dent  was  no  negative  character.  However,  Captain 
Frazer  had  never  found  her  too  absorbed  in  her 
other  companions  to  be  able  to  give  him  a  share  of 
her  attention  which  differed  from  all  other  shares 
that  she  bestowed,  in  being  a  bit  more  personal  in 
its  cordiality.  His  black-fringed  blue  eyes  were 
keen  and  far-sighted.  They  assured  him  that,  what- 
ever her  regard  for  him,  at  least  it  was  true  that, 
in  all  her  Cape  Town  life,  there  was  no  man  for 
whom  Ethel  Dent  had  a  sincerer  liking. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  a  doubt  had  assailed  his 
mind,  and  the  doubt  had  centered  itself  in  this  long, 
lean  Canadian  with  the  grave,  steady  face  and  the 
boyish  manner.  Worst  of  all,  the  doubt  had  scarcely 
arisen  before  he  himself  had  become  aware  of  his 
own  growing  liking  for  the  young  Canadian.  Cap- 
tain Leo  Frazer  was  strictly  just.  He  admitted  to 


156  On  the  Firing  Line 

himself  that  Weldon  was  in  every  way  worthy  to  be 
chosen  by  Ethel  Dent.  However,  he  was  determined 
as  well  as  just,  and  he  had  no  mind  at  all  to  allow 
Ethel  Dent  to  choose  any  man  but  one,  and  that 
one  was  himself,  Leo  Frazer. 

And  now  he  was  sitting  moodily  by  her  fireside, 
listening  to  her  light,  easy  flow  of  talk  and  asking 
himself  certain  questions  which  he  was  powerless  to 
answer. 

As  he  rose  at  last,  some  sudden  impulse  made 
him  speak  from  the  very  midst  of  his  train  of 
thought. 

"  Did  you  know  he  had  refused  a  commission  ? " 
he  asked,  regardless  of  antecedents. 

She  made  no  pretence  of  misunderstanding  him. 

"No.     Did  he?" 

"  Yes.     Mitchell  told  me,  this  morning." 

"  I  wonder  why." 

"  He  said  he  had  pledged  himself  to  stay  with  the 
rank  and  file,  that  it  was  easier  to  take  orders  than 
to  give  them." 

"  Strange  !  "  she  said  thoughtfully. 

"  Strange  that  he  should  feel  so  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No.  He  told  me  about  that,  coming  out.  I 
am  not  surprised.  But  it  is  strange  that  he 
should  n't  have  spoken  of  the  matter  now." 

"  It  was  like  him.  He  does  n't  tell  all  his  best 
deeds,"  Captain  Frazer  said,  with  direct  frankness. 


On  the  Firing  Line  157 

"  Still,  I   thought  it   was   fairer  that  you   should 
know." 

Her  color  came,  as  she  met  his  eyes ;  but  she 
offered  no  question  in  regard  to  the  meaning  of  his 
final  phrase. 


158  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

OOD  reason  they  call  them  kopjes,"  Carew 
grumbled  scornfully,  as  he  swept  his  arm 
about  the  encircling  landscape.  "Every 
flat-top  hill  is  an  exact  copy  of  every  other  flat-top 
hill,  and  they  all  are  more  or  less  hideous  to  behold. 
My  one  source  of  rejoicement  lies  in  the  fact  that  the 
pattern  was  worn  out  down  here,  instead  of  being  sent 
up  to  make  our  mountains  by.  I  hate  a  bobtail  horse  ; 
but  it 's  nothing  so  bad  as  these  everlasting  bobtail 
hills.  And,  by  Jove,  there  comes  another  dust 
devil!" 

Far  away  across  the  veldt,  a  tiny  spurt  of  dust 
twirled  up  into  the  air  and  came  spinning  towards 
them  like  a  huge,  translucent  top.  Gaining  momen- 
tum as  it  spun  along  and  picking  up  more  dust  as  it 
advanced,  it  came  whirling  onward,  rising  high  and 
higher  until  it  swept  down  on  them,  a  huge,  khaki- 
colored,  balloon-like  mass.  It  caught  them  in  its 
whirl,  ground  its  stinging,  sifting  particles  into  their 
clothing,  their  skin  and  even  into  their  shut  eyes. 
Then  it  passed  them  by,  and  went  spinning  away  in  its 
course.  Carew  swore  softly,  as  he  wiped  the  dust 
from  his  lashes. 

"  Beastly  things !     There  really   ought   to   be  a 


On  the  Firing  Line  159 

society  formed  for  the  suppression  of  dust  devils  in 
their  infancy.  What  do  you  suppose  becomes  of  the 
things,  Weldon  ?  There 's  no  stopping  them,  once 
they  get  under  way  ;  and,  at  their  rate  of  growth, 
they  could  bury  a  township  in  their  old  age."" 

"  Granted  they  could  find  one  to  bury,"  Weldon 
returned.  "  Meanwhile,  observe  your  bath  tub.11 

Carew  glanced  down  at  the  dust-filled  buckets  at 
his  feet. 

"  Oh,  hang ! "  he  said  concisely.  "  And  I  was 
about  to  prink." 

"  One  would  think  you  needed  it  now  more  than 
ever,"  Weldon  answered,  as  he  shook  himself  free 
from  the  thickest  of  the  dust.  "  What 's  the  use  of 
trying  to  keep  clean,  Carew  ?" 

"  Precious  little.  I  used  to  talk  about  *  the  un- 
tubbed.""  Now  I  mean,  merely  for  the  sake  of  example, 
to  shave  twice  in  the  month,  and  swab  myself  off 
between  whiles.  It 's  not  for  comfort,  I  assure  you. 
It 's  my  belief  that  an  occasional  bath  is  worse  than 
none.  It  merely  stirs  up  memories  of  the  buried 
past,  and  aspirations  that  can't  be  fulfilled.  How- 
ever —  "  And  Carew,  the  quondam  exquisite,  pulled 
off  his  socks  and  shirt,  punched  them  down  into  one 
of  the  buckets  and  then  did  his  British  best  to  wash 
himself  in  the  other. 

His  lamentations  rose  again,  however,  when  he  put 
on  his  time-stained  uniform  once  more. 

"I  now  understand  why  Brother  Boer  sleeps  in 


160  On  the  Firing  Line 

his  clothes,"1'  he  observed  grimly.  "  Cleanliness  may 
be  next  to  godliness  ;  but  it  is  mighty  near  the  edge 
of  the  diabolical  to  put  yourself  back  into  clothes  that 
are  only  fit  for  the  dust  bin.  When  I  am  field 
marshal  of  a  long  campaign,  my  first  act  will  be  to 
establish  swimming  tanks  and  laundries  as  a  branch 
of  the  Army  Service  Corps.  Meanwhile,  see  here ! " 
His  open  hand  came  down  on  his  dust-colored  coat. 
Ten  minutes  later,  the  print  of  every  finger  was  still 
distinctly  visible. 

Weldon  watched  him  sympathetically.  Thanks 
to  the  efforts  of  Kruger  Bobs,  his  own  clothing  was 
slightly  less  filled  with  dust,  and  his  abandoned  socks 
came  back  to  him  in  a  state  of  comparative  cleanli- 
ness. Satisfied  with  the  fact,  he  made  no  effort  to 
inquire  into  the  method  of  its  achievement. 

Carew,  meanwhile,  his  coat  off,  his  sleeves  rolled 
to  his  elbows,  was  grappling  with  his  efforts  to  pro- 
duce laundry  effect  from  a  wooden  bucket  and  a  few 
quarts  of  dingy  water.  Beyond  splashing  his  putties 
and  giving  himself  a  pain  in  the  hinges  of  his  back, 
he  accomplished  little.  The  garments  were  very 
wet ;  but  their  griminess  was  increased,  rather  than 
diminished.  Carew's  face  fell,  as  he  lifted  them  one 
by  one.  Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"  They  certainly  are  n't  cleaner ;  but  they  may  be 
a  bit  fresher  for  being  irrigated,"  he  observed  hope- 
fully. "  Look  out ! " 

Weldon  dodged  out  of  range,  as  a  sock,  squeezed 


On  the  Firing  Line  161 

from  the  ankle  downward,  yielded  up  its  irrigation  in 
a  sudden  spurt  through  the  toe. 

"  Hold  on,  Carew ;  I  'm  no  candidate  for  baptism," 
he  adjured  his  friend.  "  Let  your  things  soak  for  a 
while,  and  1 11  send  Kruger  Bobs  over  to  take  them 
in  hand,  as  soon  as  he  gets  through  polishing  off  The 
Nig." 

Carew  straightened  his  aching  back. 

"I'll  change  work  with  him,"  he  suggested 
promptly.  "  A  horse  is  on  your  own  level ;  it 's 
degrading  to  ran  a  Chinese  laundry." 

Weldon  glanced  from  the  wooden  bucket  to  the 
soaked  wrists  and  splashed  putties  of  his  companion. 

"I  wish  Miss  Mellen  could  see  you  now,  Carew," 
he  remarked  unkindly. 

With  unexpected  suddenness,  Carew  mounted  his 
dignity. 

"  Unfortunately  Miss  Mellen  is  at  Johannesburg. 
Moreover,  Miss  Mellen  has  probably  seen  men  in  this 
mess  before  now,"  he  answered  a  little  shortly. 

"  Doubtless.  She  may  have  been  in  a  similar  fix, 
herself.  If  she  were,  I  suspect  she  would  put  it 
through  and  come  out  on  top,"  Weldon  replied,  with 
an  accent  of  hearty  and  respectful  admiration  which 
mollified  his  companion.  "There's  my  call.  I  must 
go  to  inspect  my  day  nursery."  And,  leaving  Carew 
beside  his  amateur  wash-tub,  he  went  striding  away  to 
the  farther  side  of  the  camp  where  a  hollow  between 

the  hills  had  been  converted  into  a  monstrous  kraal. 

11 


162  On  the  Firing  Line 

Involuntarily  he  smiled,  as  he  walked  off  to  his 
duty.  Carew  had  been  an  edifying  spectacle,  as  he 
had  sacrificed  himself  upon  the  altar  of  cleanliness. 
He  had  been  neither  deft,  dignified  nor  devout ; 
and,  in  all  truth,  Alice  Mellen  would  have  found  it 
hard  to  recognize  her  finical  patient  in  the  dusty, 
unshaven  man  whose  hair  bore  unmistakable  signs 
of  having  been  pruned  with  a  pair  of  pocket  scissors. 
Little  of  Carew^s  past  month  had  been  spent  in  the 
base  camp  at  Springfontein.  With  hundreds  of 
other  men,  he  had  gone  galloping  up  and  down  the 
Free  State  on  the  slippery  heels  of  De  Wet,  now 
being  shot  at  by  prowling  Boers,  now  engaged  in  a 
lively  skirmish  from  which  he  never  made  his  exit 
totally  unscathed,  now  riding  for  weary,  dusty  miles 
upon  a  scent  which  ultimately  proved  to  be  a  false 
one.  And,  meanwhile,  not  a  postbag  came  into 
camp  without  a  letter  for  Carew,  bearing  the  mark 
of  Johannesburg.  It  was  not  altogether  resultless 
that  Carew's  foot  had  been  obstinately  slow  in  its 
healing. 

To  Weldon,  a  fixture  in  camp,  fell  the  care  of 
receiving  Carew's  mail.  At  last,  when  one  day  the 
bag  brought  in  two  letters  addressed  in  the  same 
dashing,  angular  handwriting,  he  forsook  his  princi- 
ples and  made  open  comment. 

"  There  is  a  slight  monotony  about  your  mail,  in 
these  latter  days,  Carew,11  he  observed  dispassion- 
ately. 


On  the  Firing  Line  163 

And  Carew  had  answered,  with  perfect  com- 
posure,— 

"  Yes,  in  view  of  my  chronic  trick  of  being  potted 
at,  I  find  it  wise  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  my 
nurse.  It  may  prove  handy  in  case  of  accident,  like 
an  insurance  policy,  you  know.  Is  that  all  ?  "  And, 
cramming  the  letters  into  his  pocket,  he  walked 
away  to  his  tent. 

And  Weldon,  as  he  watched  him,  nodded  con- 
tentedly to  himself.  He  liked  Carew  ;  he  also  liked 
Alice  Mellen.  Beyond  that,  he  made  no  effort  to 
go.  Just  now,  he  cared  to  penetrate  the  thoughts_of 
but  one  woman.  The  others  he  was  willing  to  take 
on  trust.  Nevertheless,  it  would  have  caused  him 
some  surprise,  could  he  have  reviewed  all  the  mental 
processes  of  Alice  Mellen,  during  the  past  ten 
months. 

For  Weldon,  the  days  at  Springfontein  differed 
not  one  whit,  one  from  another,  yet  each  day  was 
full  of  an  excitement  which  sent  his  blood  stinging 
through  his  veins  Every  man  in  the  regiment 
could  ride  a  broken  horse ;  but,  for  many  of  them 
their  attainments  stopped  there,  and  broken  horses 
were  few  and  far  between.  With  the  increasing 
need  of  troopers  for  the  guerrilla  raiding  into  which 
the  war  was  degenerating,  with  the  inevitable  losses 
of  a  long  campaign,  mounts  of  any  kind  were  scarce. 
Nevertheless,  consternation  had  descended  upon  the 
camp,  one  day,  when  three  hundred  kicking,  squeal- 


164  On  the  Firing  Line 

ing  American  bronchos  had  been  detrained  and 
placed  at  their  service.  The  next  day,  casualties 
were  frequent;  on  the  day  after  that,  there  was 
made  announcement  that  mounted  parade  would  be 
omitted.  Weldon  read  the  notice,  smiled  and  went 
in  search  of  his  captain.  He  was  tired  of  inaction, 
and  he  felt  his  muscles  growing  soft.  They  hardened 
speedily,  however. 

Day  after  day,  he  went  striding  into  the  kraal 
whence,  after  a  skirmish  which  was  more  or  less  pro- 
longed, he  emerged  astride  a  mount  which,  with 
shrieking  voice  and  rampant  hoofs,  gave  notice  to 
all  that  such  a  liberty  could  not  be  permitted.  Nev- 
ertheless, it  was  permitted.  Sometimes,  the  final 
contest  took  place  miles  away  from  the  point  of  its 
beginning.  Sometimes  horse  and  rider  settled  the 
matter  in  the  course  of  a  few  concentric  circles  of  an 
hundred-yard  radius ;  sometimes  it  bucked ;  some- 
times it  rolled,  and  sometimes  it  merely  sat  down 
upon  its  haunches,  dog- wise,  and  refused  to  budge. 
Almost  invariably,  it  came  out  from  the  contest,  un- 
scarred  save  for  its  dignity  and  its  temper.  Weldon's 
lips  shut  tight ;  but  his  eyes  rarely  blazed.  These 
wild,  frightened  creatures  taxed  his  patience  and  his 
resource ;  but  they  hardly  touched  his  temper  in  the 
least. 

"  What 's  the  use  of  thrashing  a  beast  that 's  mad 
with  terror  ?  "  he  answered  one  critical  amateur  who 
had  watched  the  game  from  a  safe  distance.  "The 


On  the. Firing  Line  165 

creature  is  in  a  funk,  as  it  is  ;  there's  no  use  in  add- 
ing to  it.  All  I  'm  after  is  to  teach  'em  that  saddles 
and  bridles  don't  bite.  Treat  'em  decently  and  sit 
tight,  and  they  '11  come  right  and  learn  to  trust  you 
in  the  end." 

And,  as  mount  after  mount  was  delivered  over  to 
the  waiting  authorities,  it  came  to  be  a  matter  of 
general  belief  that  the  regimental  rough-rider  knew 
his  business,  albeit  he  accomplished  it  more  by  dint 
of  urging  than  by  many  blows. 

Six  weeks  of  this  work  had  told  upon  him,  told  in 
the  right  direction.  Under  the  brown  skin,  the 
muscles  stood  out  like  knotted  cords ;  his  nerves 
were  steady ;  he  ate  like  a  wolf  and  slept  the  dream- 
less sleep  of  a  healthy  child.  To  the  outward  eye, 
his  face  changed  but  little.  Its  outlines  were  more 
rugged,  the  curves  of  his  lips  a  bit  more  resolute  ; 
but  that  was  all. 

Now  and  then,  amid  the  merry  group  at  the 
camp  fire,  he  sat  silent,  while  he  let  his  mind  range 
away  to  the  southward.  Somewhere  there,  in  the 
green-ringed  town  in  the  mountain's  shelter,  was  a 
tall  girl  with  yellow  hair  and  eyes  which  matched 
the  zenith  when  it  darkens  after  the  dropping  of  the 
sun.  His  fancy  painted  her  in  every  conceivable 
situation  :  walking,  riding,  resting  at  noonday  in  the 
shaded  western  end  of  the  veranda,  or  pouring  tea 
for  relays  of  thirsty  guests.  As  a  rule,  the  Captain's 
figure  was  in  the  background  of  these  pictures,  and 


166  On  the  Firing  Line 

Weldon  was  content  to  have  it  so.  In  all  South 
Africa,  these  were  his  two  best  friends  ;  it  was  good 
that  they  could  be  together.  And  the  Captain  was 
an  older  man,  much  older.  When  one  lives  in  the 
open  air  during  twenty-four  hours  of  every  day, 
jealousy  has  scant  place  in  his  mind.  The  smaller 
vices  are  for  the  cramped  town,  not  for  the  limitless, 
unbroken  veldt. 

And  now  and  then  a  day  brought  with  it  a  letter, 
frank,  friendly  and  full  of  news.  Those  days  Weldon 
marked  with  a  white  stone  ;  but  his  sleep,  on  those 
nights,  was  as  quiet  and  dreamless  as  ever.  Facts 
were  facts.  Theories  and  hopes  were  for  the  future  ; 
and  no  man  looks  much  to  the  future  in  a  time  of 
war. 

Besides  the  letters,  there  were  minor  events,  too, 
events  which  went  to  fill  up  the  letters  of  reply. 
Now  it  was  a  hospital  train  which  halted  at  the 
camp  on  the  way  southward,  and  each  red-caped 
nurse  had  reminded  him  of  Alice  Mellen,  and  of  those 
last  days  in  Johannesburg.  Now  it  was  a  two-day 
trek,  as  escort  for  a  convoy  train  whose  long  lines  of 
bullock-drawn  wagons  marked  the  brown  veldt  with 
a  wavering  stripe  of  duller  brown.  Again  a  wounded 
picket  came  straying  back  to  camp,  bleeding  and 
dazed,  to  report  the  inevitable  sniping  which  fur- 
nished the  running  accompaniment  to  most  other 
events ;  or  an  angry  squad  came  riding  in,  to  tell  of 
the  shots  which  had  followed  close  upon  the  raising 


On  the  Firing  Line  167 

of  the  white  flag,  or  of  the  score  of  armed  men  who 
had  suddenly  leaped  out  from  the  safe  shelter  of  a 
Red-Cross  ambulance.  And,  on  one  occasion,  he  had 
been  in  the  thick  of  a  similar  fray.  Hand  to  hand, 
he  had  fought  on  the  doorsteps  of  a  farmhouse  to 
which  he  and  his  five  comrades  had  been  bidden  by 
a  sprightly  Boer  in  gown  and  sunbonnet.  At  the 
door,  the  bonnet  had  been  cast  from  the  cropped 
head,  and  the  gown  had  been  pushed  back  to  give 
access  to  the  bandolier  beneath,  while  a  dozen 
shots  from  an  upper  window  had  driven  them  from 
the  dooryard  into  the  comparative  shelter  of  the 
lower  rooms.  The  skirmish  had  ended  with  a 
charge  up  the  stairway.  Weldon,  that  same  night, 
had  written  to  Ethel  a  wholly  humorous  account  of 
the  whole  affair,  and  it  was  not  until  long  afterwards 
that  she  had  learned  from  Carew,  who  had  been  of 
the  party,  which  was  the  trooper  who  had  mounted 
guard  over  the  room  where  the  aged  grandmother 
had  tucked  herself  away  under  her  bed.  The  old 
Dutch  vrouw  had  bidden  him  to  share  her  shelter ; 
but  he  had  taken  note  of  her  dimensions,  and  had 
declined  her  hospitality.  Later  on,  when  the  fight 
was  over  and  she  had  painfully  wriggled  her  way  out 
from  her  trap,  he  had  also  declined  certain  of  her 
manifestations  of  gratitude.  Even  chivalry  to  the 
aged  possesses  its  humorous  side. 

Then,  one  November  night,  Weldon  came  into  his 
tent  with  alert  step  and  glowing  eyes.     He  found 


168  On  the  Firing  Line 

Carew  going  through  his  camp  outfit  in  detail,  and, 
squatting  on  the  floor  in  the  corner,  Kruger  Bobs 
was  cleaning  accoutrements  as  if  his  life  depended 
on  it. 

"  You  look  as  if  events  were  about  to  happen,"  he 
observed,  from  the  dispassionate  distance  of  the 
doorway. 

"  They  are." 

"  Ask  them  to  include  me,  then." 

"  What  do  you  need  of  events,  you  regimental 
broncho-buster  ?  " 

"One  gets  sick  of  even  the  best  horseflesh  in 
time,"  he  answered  nonchalantly. 

"  Sorry,  for  you  are  doomed  to  more  of  it." 

"  Another  herd  of  bronchos  ? "  Weldon's  voice 
showed  that  the  idea  displeased  him. 

"  No ;  but  a  two-hundred-mile  trek  across  country." 

"  Good.  I  am  tired  of  being  cooped  up,  and  a 
spin  of  that  kind  will  be  a  boon." 

Carew  settled  back  on  his  heels  and  looked  up  at 
him. 

"  Spin  is  it !  Your  only  spin  will  be  on  your  own 
axis.  We  are  to  act  as  escort  for  a  convoy  train  of 
fifty  wagons  and  ten  times  fifty  mules.  We  shall 
make  six  miles  a  day,  and  our  tongues  will  be  wholly 
corrupted  by  the  language  of  the  mule-drivers.  And, 
in  the  end,  we  shall  get  to  — " 

"  A  glorious  fight,  I  trust,"  Weldon  supplemented. 

Gloomily  Carew  shook  his  head. 


On  the  Firing  Line  169 

"No;  merely  to  Winburg.  We  are  going  to 
provision  Weppener  and  Ladybrand,  and  then  make 
for  the  railroad  again.  We  11  strike  it  at  Winburg 
most  likely.  It  is  an  unholy  sort  of  hole,  and  I 
hear  that  the  hotel  serves  watered  ink  and  currant 
jelly  under  the  name  of  claret.  We  shall  sit  there 
and  sip  it,  until  the  train  arrives,  and  then  we  shall 
entrain  and  come  back  again.  And  this,"  he  em- 
phasized his  words  by  plumping  forward  on  his 
knees  once  more ;  "  and  this  is  war ! " 

"  Yes ;  but  it  lets  us  out  on  a  longer  leash  than  I 
have  had  for  some  time,"  Weldon  said  serenely. 
"  Anyway,  it  is  well  for  you  that  it  is  not  likely  to 
be  a  bloody  campaign,  for  you  11  be  headed  straight 
away  from  Johannesburg,  and  I  misdoubt  me  if 
Winburg  holds  a  hospital." 

"Judging  from  my  past  records,  it  will  have  to 
found  one,  then,"  Carew  answered  composedly.  "  If 
I  have  to  go  through  two  hundred  miles  of  the 
enemy's  country,  they  might  as  well  open  up,  in 
readiness  for  my  coming.  But  what  is  the  letter, 
old  man  ?  " 

"  News.  Yours  had  knocked  it  out  of  my  mind, 
though.  Mine  comes  off  later.  Captain  Frazer  has 
been  transferred  to  the  South  African  Light  Horse, 
and  will  come  up  here  as  adjutant,  on  the  first." 

Carew's  face  brightened. 

"That's  good  hearing.  He  will  be  higher  still, 
before  De  Wet  is  taken." 


170  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  I  hope  so.  Anyway,  he  is  coming  to  us.  Think 
of  having  him  about  again ! " 

"Much  good  will  it  do  us !  An  adjutant  does  n't 
mess  with  the  trooper.11 

"  Frazer  will  stick  to  his  friends." 

"  Mayhap.  Still,  better  men  than  he  have  gone 
dizzy,  as  they  went  up  the  ladder,  and  dizziness 
makes  people  look  at  what's  above  them,  rather 
than  at  what  is  below,"  Carew  answered  oracularly. 
"  Frazer's  influence  will  be  sound,  and  we  shall  feel 
it  from  one  end  of  things  to  the  other.  Aside  from 
that,  we  aren't  likely  to  be  much  affected  by  his 
coming.  Did  Miss  Dent  tell  any  other  news  ? " 

"  As  it  happens,  Miss  Dent  did  n't  tell  me  this." 

"  Who,  then  ?  " 

"Captain  Frazer,  himself,"  Weldon  answered, 
with  a  quiet  relish  of  his  own  victory.  "  He  sends 
messages  and  all  that  to  you."  Then  he  added, 
"And  who  else  do  you  think  is  coming?" 

"  With  him  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Carew  shook  his  head. 

"  I  've  no  idea,  unless  Lord  Kitchener  is  about  to 
pay  us  a  visit.  There  were  rumors  of  it,  a  week  or 
so  ago." 

"Guess  again.  It's  a  mightier  than  Lord  Kit- 
chener, this  time." 

«  Can't  be." 

Weldon  laughed. 


On  the  Firing  Line  171 

"  It  is,  for  it  is  a  man  trained  to  two  weapons, 
who  has  beaten  his  kettles  into  a  helmet  and  his 
pepper-pot  into  a  cartridge-box.1" 

"Paddy?'1 

"Yes,  Paddy.  The  Captain  writes  that  he  is 
thirsting  for  gore  and  glory,  and  that  he  has  learned 
to  ride  anything  from  a  clotheshorse  to  a  nightmare."" 

Carew  laughed. 

"  Paddy  all  over.  He  never  could  take  things  as 
they  came." 

"  Except  Parrott's  horse,1'  Weldon  suggested. 

"  How  did  he  get  out  of  that  scrape  ?  " 

"  Went  out.  There  was  talk  of  official  vengeance ; 
but  Paddy  vanished,  that  same  night.  A  week 
later,  he  turned  up  at  the  Captain's  room  in  Cape 
Town,  with  a  bundle  of  clothes  and  a  story  that 
was  as  leaky  as  a  sieve.  The  Captain  sent  him  out 
to  Maitland  to  be  licked  into  shape,  and  this  is  the 
result." 

"  No,"  Carew  objected  in  a  sudden  burst  of 
prophecy.  "  Mind  my  words,  Paddy  has  not  re- 
sulted yet.  That  will  come,  later  on  in  the  game." 


172  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

WINBURG  may  have  all  the  elements  of 
greatness  ;  but  greatness  itself  is  lacking. 
Nevertheless,  after  watching  a  convoy 
train  tool  along  over  the  green-flecked  yellow  veldt 
at  the  rate  of  six  miles  a  day,  after  seeing  nothing 
but  an  occasional  isolated  farmhouse,  the  little  town 
appeared  like  a  centre  of  civilization  and  excitement 
to  the  bored  troopers,  as  they  rode  up  the  main  street 
and  pitched  camp  on  the  western  edge  of  the  town. 
There  they  sat  and  idly  wondered  behind  which  par- 
ticular hill  was  the  largest  commando.  No  type  of 
boredom  is  more  acute  than  that  which  links  itself 
with  periods  of  inaction  in  the  army.  Fifteen  min- 
utes would  have  sufficed  to  exhaust  the  resources  of 
Winburg;  the  troopers  remained  there  for  fifteen 
days. 

Only  Kruger  Bobs  was  fully  in  his  element.  His 
daily  grooming  of  the  broncho  and  his  master  once 
over,  his  time  was  his  own,  and  he  employed  it  to  the 
best  of  his  ability.  Fate  had  endowed  Kruger  Bobs 
with  a  smile  which  won  instant  liking  and  gained  in- 
stant fulfilment  of  his  wishes.  Just  as,  months 
before,  he  had  sat  on  the  river  bank  at  Piquetberg 
Road,  and  grinned  persuasively  at  the  jam  tins,  so 
now  he  ranged  up  and  down  among  the  farms  scat- 


On  the  Firing  Line  173 

tered  about  Winburg,  and  grinned  himself  into  pos- 
session of  manifold  eggs  and  plump  fowls  and  even 
of  soft  wheat  bread,  the  final  luxury  of  the  biscuit- 
sated  trooper  who  owned  his  fealty. 

"  *  Is  thy  servant  a  dog  ? ' "  Carew  had  quoted 
gravely  at  sight  of  his  first  army  biscuit. 

And  Weldon  had  made  answer,  — 

"  Not  if  he  knows  it.  I  have  always  had  full  sym- 
pathy with  my  hound  who  leaves  his  dog-bread  in 
favor  of  a  bit  of  oak  planking  gnawed  out  from  his 
kennel  floor." 

But  Carew  was  less  dainty.  Nevertheless,  he  at- 
tacked the  biscuit  with  two  flat  stones,  and  mixed 
the  debris  with  his  coffee. 

Now,  however,  thanks  to  the  efforts  of  Kruger 
Bobs,  they  were  living  thriftily  and  upon  the  fat  of 
the  land. 

"  How  do  you  get  it  all,  Kruger  Bobs  ? "  Weldon 
had  demanded,  one  day.  "To  my  sure  knowledge, 
you've  no  money,  and  people  hereabouts  don't  love 
the  British.  What  is  your  secret  ?  " 

Kruger  Bobs  ducked  his  bristly  head  into  his 
ragged  hat,  and  gave  an  explosive  chuckle.  Then 
he  raised  his  head  and  scratched  it  demurely. 

"Kruger  Bobs  just  gits  it,  Boss,"  he  explained 
comprehensively. 

He  came  in,  the  next  night,  his  pockets  stuffed, 
his  mouth  wide  ajar  and  the  very  whites  of  his  eyes 
full  of  mystery.  Carew  and  Weldon,  sitting  to- 


174  On  the  Firing  Line 

gether,  glanced  up  as  he  appeared.  Instantly,  as  he 
caught  sight  of  Carew,  Kruger  Bobs  veiled  his  emo- 
tion and  sought  to  become  properly  nonchalant. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  plain  that  he  had  tidings  to 
impart ;  and  at  length,  over  the  top  of  Carew^s  head, 
he  fell  to  making  graphic,  yet  totally  unintelligible, 
signs  to  his  master. 

"  What  in  thunder  do  you  want,  Kruger  Bobs  ?  " 
Weldon  demanded. 

Kruger  Bobs  heaved  an  ostentatious  sigh,  cast  at 
Weldon  one  flashing  grin,  and  then  asked  dolor- 
ously, — 

"  Me  speak  Boss  out  dere  ?  " 

"What  under  heaven  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Kruger  Bobs?"  Weldon  asked,  as  he  departed  on 
the  heels  of  his  serving  man. 

Kruger  Bobs  slapped  his  thigh  noiselessly,  vanished 
behind  his  smile,  then  reappeared  to  put  his  lips  to 
Weldon's  ear  and  whisper  in  raucous  triumph  — 

"  Syb  down  dere  Winburg." 

"What?    Who  is  Syb?"  Weldon  queried  blankly. 

Kruger  Bobs  straightened,  in  dignified  resentment 
at  his  master's  ignorance. 

"  Syb  be  my  vrouw  soon." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  No  wonder  you  look  elated,  you  ras- 
cal. So  you  have  been  courting  ?  " 

The  grin  reappeared. 

"  Ya,  Boss.     More,  too." 

"What  now?" 


On  the  Firing  Line  175 

"  Kruger  Bobs  got  despatch  from  Syb  for  Boss." 

Weldon's  face  expressed  his  amusement. 

"Much  obliged  to  the  lady.     Give  her  mine.11 

"Syb  say  — "  Again  the  thick  black  lips  ap- 
proached Weldon's  ear,  and  the  bristly  head  nodded 
energetically  in  time  to  the  moving  lips. 

"  Who  ? "  Weldon  said  incredulously.  "  Miss 
Mellen?11 

"  Ya,  Boss." 

"  How  does  Syb  —  Is  that  what  you  call  her  ?  — 
how  does  she  know  ?  Oh,  I  remember  now.  It  is 
the  girl  who  served  at  Miss  Mellen^  home,11  Weldon 
said,  as  light  began  to  dawn. 

"Ya,  Boss;  dat  Syb.11 

"  And  she  is  here  with  Miss  Mellen  ?  " 

Kruger  Bobs  nodded. 

"  What  are  they  doing  ?  " 

"  Dey  is  nurses  sick  mens.11 

"  How  long  have  they  been  here  ?  " 

"  One,  tree,  five  day.11 

"  Five  days,11  Weldon  translated  to  himself.  "  It 
was  an  odd  chance,  your  running  on  her  so  soon. 
Did  she  know  we  were  here  ?  " 

"She  tink  ya,11  Kruger  Bobs  replied.  "Syb  no 
tell.11 

"But  why  not?" 

The  matter-of-course  question  appeared  to  fill 
Kruger  Bobs  with  amazement. 

"  Boss  make  night  march,11  he  answered. 


176  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  She  may  not  care  to  have  me.  Still,  we  11  ride 
out  there  with  you  in  the  morning." 

"Boss?" 

"  Mr.  Carew  and  myself." 

Kruger  Bobs  looked  hurt.  In  hot  excitement,  the 
black  fingers  closed  on  a  fold  of  the  brown  sleeve. 

"  Kruger  Bobs  go,  too  ?  " 

"  What  makes  you  want  to  go  ?  " 

"  Syb  dere,  Boss." 

"  I  don't  see  what  difference  that  makes,"  Weldon 
said  reflectively. 

Once  more  Kruger  Bobs  turned  coy. 

"  Boss  go  see  his  vrouw ;  me  go  see  Syb,"  he  ex- 
plained briefly. 

Weldon's  laugh  astonished  him ;  still  more  Wei- 
don's  answer. 

"  Oh,  Kruger  Bobs,  you  love-struck  calf !  Because 
you  're  in  love  with  Syb,  do  you  think  it  follows  that 
I  am  in  love  with  Miss  Mellen  ?  " 

Kruger  Bobs  plotted  geometrical  problems  with 
his  left  toe. 

"  Syb  say,"  he  replied  at  length.  Then  he  raised 
his  eyes  from  his  problem.  "  Boss  vrouw  good,"  he 
ventured  persuasively. 

Weldon  laughed  again. 

"So  we  all  think.  Mr.  Carew  knows  her  much 
better  than  I  do,  though,  and  Miss  Mellen  would  be 
hurt,  if  he  did  n't  go  out  to  see  her." 

But  Kruger  Bobs  stood  his  ground. 


On  the  Firing  Line  177 

"  Boss  Weldon  go  see  his  vrouw  ;  Kruger  Bobs  go 
see  his  vrouw;  Boss  Carew  no  vrouw." 

However,  in  spite  of  the  advice  of  Kruger  Bobs, 
Carew  was  at  Weldon's  side,  as  they  rode  through 
Winburg,  the  next  morning. 

Already  the  country  was  taking  on  the  look  of 
summer,  and  the  dusty  stretches  of  veldt  were  tinged 
here  and  there  with  thin  patches  of  growing  green. 
Over  the  hills  nearest  the  town  were  scattered  the 
lines  of  ruined  trenches,  still  littered  here  and  there 
with  rusty  tools  dropped  there  by  the  Boers  when, 
long  months  before,  they  had  caught  sight  of  the 
advancing  armies  of  French  and  Hutton.  As  they 
drew  nearer,  Weldon  could  make  out  the  familiar 
details  of  a  field  hospital :  the  low  white  tents  in 
their  circle  of  whitewashed  stones,  the  Red-Cross 
nurses  hurrying  to  and  fro  and  the  blue-coated  con- 
valescents strolling  leisurely  about  the  enclosure. 
Carew,  meanwhile,  had  pushed  forward.  Above  the 
P.  M.  O.'s  tent  fluttered  the  Red  Cross,  and  he  had 
caught  sight  of  a  white  apron  and  a  scarlet  cape  in 
the  open  door. 

"  Miss  Mellen  !     Alice ! " 

In  the  still  air  of  a  summer  noon,  Carew's  voice 
carried  distinctly  back  to  Weldon.  He  glanced 
towards  the  tent.  Then,  beckoning  to  Kruger  Bobs, 
he  turned  and  rode  away  to  inspect  the  distant 
landscape. 

An  hour  later,  Kruger  Bobs  was  squatting  on  the 
12 


178  On  the  Firing  Line 

ground,  a  heaped  plate  on  his  knees  and  a  smile  of 
rapture  surrounding  his  smacking  lips.  Near  him, 
the  three  horses  munched  contentedly,  stamping 
lightly  now  and  then  and  whisking  their  tails  to 
drive  off  the  buzzing  flies.  Outside  the  door  of  the 
tent,  Alice  Mellen  sat  on  a  bench,  with  Carew  at  her 
side  and  Weldon  sprawling  lazily  on  the  ground  at 
her  feet. 

"Twenty-seven  inside,""  she  told  them.  "It  is 
mostly  enteric  and  S.  C.,  men  who  have  been  sent 
here  from  Bloemfontein.  Their  hospitals  are  over- 
crowded. We  have  both  sorts  here,  you  know." 

"  Nursing  Boers  ?  "  Carew  asked,  disapprovingly. 

"  Why  not  ?  They  are  men,  plucky  men,  too, 
some  of  them.  I  rather  like  the  race.  Anyway,  it 
makes  an  interesting  mixture.  We  have  had  to  put 
them  all  together,  and  they  get  on  capitally,  ex- 
changing stories  and  gossip  and  sympathy  like  men 
of  the  same  company.  One  of  them,  a  Boer,  — " 
she  hesitated  for  the  right  word ;  then  she  adopted 
the  vernacular  of  the  service  —  "  went  out,  the  other 
day;  and,  among  his  mourners,  the  sincerest  ones 
were  the  two  London  Tommies  in  the  two  next  beds. 
War  is  n't  all  hatred,  by  any  means.  Turn  nurse  for 
a  month  .and  you  '11  find  it  out.'1 

"  Or  else  turn  patient,"  Carew  interpolated  quietly. 

Her  color  came  ;  but  she  only  turned  more  directly 
to  Weldon. 
..."  I  was  glad  to  come  here  for  a  change,"  she  added. 


On  the  Firing  Line  179 

"Shall  you  stay  here  long  ?  " 

"  It  is  impossible  to  tell.  The  other  nurses  here 
are  younger  at  it  than  I,  and  there  are  some  hard 
cases.  If  it  were  not  for  Syb,  I  should  be  at  my 
wits'  end  sometimes." 

"Then  ought  you  to  stay  here?"  Carew  urged, 
with  a  sudden  assumption  of  proprietorship  which 
sat  well  upon  him. 

She  faced  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  but  this  is  nothing  in  comparison  with 
Johannesburg.  There  the  work  is  agonizing.  Be- 
tween wounds  and  enteric,  the  place  is  crammed,  and 
we  can't  get  the  nurses  we  absolutely  need.  My 
mother  thought  I  was  growing  too  tired,  and  she 
sent  Syb  up  here  to  take  care  of  me.  Instead,  I  have 
pressed  her  into  the  service  and  trained  her  until 
she  is  one  of  the  best  nurses  I  have  ever  had  under 
me.  The  men  adore  her,  she  is  so  strong  and  so  full 
of  her  queer,  jolly  fun." 

With  his  head  pillowed  on  his  arms,  Weldon  lay 
watching  her  thoughtfully.  Under  her  piles  of  inky 
hair,  her  face  looked  thin,  and  the  shadows  lay 
heavy  around  her  eyes.  Nevertheless,  the  eyes  were 
shining  and  the  curves  of  the  lips  were  all 
upward.  Plainly  the  day  had  brought  her  a 
tonic ;  yet  the  past  six  months  had  told  upon  the 
girl  pitilessly. 

"  But,  for  God's  sake,  when  is  it  all  to  end  ? "  he 
burst  out  suddenly. 


180  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Tired  of  the  service,  Mr.  Weldon  ?  "  she  asked 
gravely,  but  with  no  accent  of  reproach. 

"Not  tired  of  my  own.  But  the  worst  of  it 
all  comes  back  on  you  women,  and  that  is  mad- 
dening." 

She  smiled  down  at  him,  and  the  light  in  her  eyes 
deepened  and  grew  yet  more  womanly. 

"  It  is  all  we  can  do  to  help,  Mr.  Weldon.  Let 
us  take  what  share  we  can.  The  work  is  hard,  hard 
and  discouraging ;  but  —  "  involuntarily  she  glanced 
at  Carew<>s  happy,  handsome  face ;  "  but  now  and 
then  it  brings  its  own  reward." 

The  short  silence  was  broken  only  by  Kruger  Bobs, 
scraping  his  spoon  along  his  fast-emptying  plate. 
Then  Alice  spoke  again. 

"  You  hear  often  from  Cooee,  Mr.  Weldon  ?  " 

"  Now  and  then.     Not  often." 

"  Did  you  know  that  she  may  come  to  us,  after 
Christmas?" 

"  No,"  he  said  alertly.     "  To  Johannesburg  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"We  need  her,  and  my  aunt  has  almost  given 
her  consent.  The  need  grows  greater,  every  day; 
we  can't  hold  out  much  longer,  unless  we  can 
have  more  help.  Cooee  isn't  trained  at  all; 
but  she  has  endless  tact  and  she  knows  how 
to  take  orders.  Unless  January  brings  us  fewer 
patients,  I  think  she  will  come  north  for  a 
month." 


On  the  Firing  Line  181 

"  Does  she  wish  to  ?  " 

Alice  laughed. 

"As  a  matter  of  mere  conscience.  Cooee  hates 
lint  and  disinfectants  and  the  hush  of  things  ;  but 
she  begins  to  see  the  need  before  her.  She  makes 
all  manner  of  fun  of  me,  and  of  the  whole  hospital 
scheme  of  things  ;  but  still  I  think  she  will  come. 
My  aunt  opposes  it ;  but  we  are  trying  to  compro- 
mise on  a  month.  That  won't  wear  Cooee  out,  and 
the  novelty  will  last  for  that  length  of  time,  and  help 
keep  up  her  enthusiasm." 

"  Did  you  know  Captain  Frazer  is  coming  up,  in 
a  week  or  two  ?  " 

For  an  instant,  Alice's  eyes  clouded. 

"  No.     When  did  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Just  as  I  left  camp.  The  appointment  took  him 
quite  by  surprise,  and  he  wrote  to  me  at  once,11  Wei- 
don  answered  with  quiet  dignity,  for  he  was  not  slow 
to  read  the  question  in  the  girl's  mind. 

Her  face  cleared. 

"  I  had  n't  heard.  Cooee's  last  letter  is  three 
weeks  old,  so  it  could  n't  bring  the  news."  Then  she 
glanced  over  her  shoulder,  as  one  of  the  doctors 
halted  on  the  threshold.  "  Am  I  needed  ?  " 

"  Young  Walpole  is  just  going,"  he  said  gravely. 
"  He  has  asked  for  you." 

Both  men  rose  to  their  feet.  It  was  Carew,  how- 
ever, who  lingered. 

"  We  are  leaving  Winburg,  to-morrow,  so  this  is 


182  On  the  Firing  Line 

good  by,""  he  said  regretfully.     "  Take  care  of  your- 
self, Alice,  and  bless  you  !  " 

And,  underneath  its  happiness,  his  boyish  face  was 
unusually  grave,  as  he  mounted  and  rode  away  at 
Weldon's  side. 


On  the  Firing  Line  183 


CHRISTMAS  morning  found   the  camp  at 
Lindley  wakening  to  a  general^  atmosphere 
of  peace  and  good  will  to  man.     Scarcely 
fifty  miles  away  at  Tweefontein,  De  Wet's  midnight 
charge  had  left  behind  it  sixty  men  sleeping  their 
last  grim  sleep  in  defiance  of  the  peace  ordained  for 
the   Christmas   dawn.      And,  midway  between   the 
camp  of  the  living  and  the  line  of  the  dead,  there 
lay  the  little  town  of  Bethlehem. 

After  the  frosty  night,  the  day  came,  hot  and  clear, 
with  the  sun  beating  down  from  a  cloudless  sky  and 
the  mirage  dancing  upon  the  distant  horizon.  To 
the  men  from  the  north,  it  was  a  bit  of  a  shock  to 
exchange  Christmas  greetings,  while  the  thermometer 
went  sliding  up  to  the  mark  of  one  hundred  degrees. 
Nevertheless,  they  hailed  one  another  lustily,  and 
threw  themselves  into  the  spirit  of  the  holiday  feast 
with  the  zest  of  schoolboys. 

For  full  three  months  now,  the  greater  number 
of  the  troopers  had  been  dodging  up  and  down  over 
the  surface  of  the  Orange  River  Colony  on  the  heels 
of  the  tireless  De  Wet.  After  accomplishing  forty 
futile  miles  a  day,  after  subsisting  chiefly  upon  army 
biscuits  and  bully  beef,  they  had  earned  their  right 


184  On  the  Firing  Line 

to  rest.  This,  at  least,  was  the  opinion  of  their 
adjutant. 

All  the  day  before,  there  had  been  flying  rumors 
of  a  forced  march  on  the  following  morning  ;  but  no 
orders  had  been  given,  and  just  at  nightfall  had  come 
the  definite  announcement  that  no  move  would  be 
made  until  after  Christmas.  Those  who  had  seen 
their  adjutant  going  away  from  the  colonel's  tent, 
half  an  hour  before,  were  able  to  draw  their  own 
conclusions.  The  rest  accepted  the  fact  as  it  stood, 
and  made  no  effort  to  account  for  the  change  in  their 
plans.  It  was  enough  for  them  that  two  thousand 
sheep  were  to  be  roasted,  to  the  end  that  every  man 
might  eat  his  fill ;  and  they  took  an  eager  hand, 
next  morning,  in  scooping  out  the  ant-hill  and 
kindling  the  fires  inside.  Then,  seated  on  the 
ground,  they  spun  their  yarns  while  they  waited 
until  the  white-hot  earth  on  top  of  the  hill  gave 
notice  that  the  oven  was  ready  for  the  roast. 

Carew,  meanwhile,  was  unpacking  the  neat  little 
parcel  which  had  come  to  him  with  Christmas  greet- 
ing from  the  Daughters  of  the  Empire.  Lined  up 
for  inspection  before  breakfast,  every  trooper  had 
received  an  exactly  similar  parcel ;  every  one  had 
given  expression  to  his  thankful  heart;  then  every 
one  had  gone  away  to  inspect  the  offering. 

"  This  is  kind  of  the  ladies,  very  kind,11  Carew  was 
observing,  with  a  perfectly  grave  face,  as  he  drew  out 
a  handkerchief  of  spotty  red  cotton  and  a  khaki- 


On  the  Firing  Line  185 

colored  nightcap.  "  Look,  Weldon  !  These  fit  my 
complexion  to  a  charm,  and  will  be  wonderfully 
warm  and  comfortable.  What  is  in  your  grab 
bag?11 

"  Ditto,  apparently,11  Weldon  answered.  "  I  think 
I  shall  keep  these  to  sport  about  at  home  in." 

Carew  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh,  no.  The  kind  ladies  wish  us  to  use  them 
now,  and  you  should  accept  the  gift  according  to 
the  spirit  in  which  it  is  given.11  Taking  off  his  wide 
felt  hat,  he  replaced  it  with  the  wool  nightcap, 
covered  the  nightcap  with  the  handkerchief  and  then 
put  on  the  hat  over  all  the  rest.  "  And  what  have 
we  here  ? "  he  continued.  "  A  pipe  ?  Oh,  the 
naughty  ladies  !  Cigarettes  ?  "  He  smelled  at  them 
gingerly,  then  sneezed  into  a  corner  of  the  scarlet 
kerchief.  "  Matches,  shoelaces,  and,  by  George,  a 
cake  of  soap !  Now,  if  we  only  had  a  farmer's 
almanac  and  a  flannel  chest-protector,  we  'd  be  quite 
complete.11 

Weldon  laughed.  Then  he  beckoned  to  a  little 
trooper  standing  beside  the  nearest  ant-hill. 

"  Paddy,11  he  said  gravely  ;  "  these  toys  are  excel- 
lent toys.  If  anything  should  happen  to  me,  I'll 
will  them  to  you." 

Paddy  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  drew  out 
his  own  nightcap  and  dangled  it  by  its  khaki- 
colored  tip. 

"  And  look  at  it ! "  he  said  slowly.     "  The  spirit 


186  On  the  Firing  Line 

is  willing  and  full  of  peace ;  but  what  would  I  be 
doing  with  that  thing,  I  who  never  had  a  hat  on  my 
head  till  I  was  ten  years  old,  let  alone  a  cap  ? " 

"  Wrap  your  feet  in  it,  then,"  Carew  suggested. 
"It's  large  enough  for  them  both.  Paddy,  who 
eats  at  your  ant-hill  ?  " 

The  little  Irishman  winked  knowingly. 

"  Them  as  invites  theirselves,  first  off.  If  it 's  you 
and  Mr.  Weldon,  so  much  the  better  for  Paddy. 
The  rum  ration  is  doubled,  the  day ;  knowing  the 
habits  of  you  both,  I  'm  thinking  I  see  my  way  to 
getting  six  times  gloriously  drunk.  There 's  beer  by 
the  hogshead,  too.  It  '11  be  a  mighty  Christmas  din- 
ner, the  first  in  years  I  've  eaten  without  cooking." 

"  You  generally  eat  it  raw  ? "  Carew  questioned 
blandly. 

"  Praised  be  Patrick,  no  ;  but  it 's  Paddy  who  has 
done  the  cooking.  This  year,  I  am  free  from  my 
pots  and  kettles,  and  can  eat  with  the  best  of  them. 
Little  Canuck  dear,  don't  ever  enlist  as  a  cook. 
Nothing  spoils  the  stomach  of  you  like  the  smell 
of  the  warming  broth." 

"  You  like  the  change,  then,  Paddy  ? "  Weldon 
asked,  as  he  thriftily  packed  up  his  parcel  and 
stowed  it  away  in  his  pocket,  with  an  eye  to  the 
gratitude  of  Kruger  Bobs. 

"Like,  is  it?  I  rejoice  greatly  and  shout,  as  the 
Book  bids  us.  It 's  a  man's  work  I  'm  doing  now  ; 
it's  with  men  that  I  am  doing  that  work,  and  it's 


On  the  Firing  Line  187 

a  man  who  leads  me  on  to  do  that  work,  meaning 
Captain  Frazer.11 

"  Where  is  the  Captain  now  ?  " 

Paddy  dropped  down  on  the  ground,  midway  be- 
tween his  friends  and  his  ant-hill. 

"  Over  yonder,  doing  the  work  of  an  honest  man 
and  a  warrior.r) 

"  That  goes  without  saying.     What  now  ?  " 

But  Paddy  chose  to  speak  in  metaphors. 

"  He 's  thrown  down  his  sword  and  picked  up  his 
bottle,"  he  responded  enigmatically. 

"  Not  drinking  ?  "  Weldon  asked  incredulously. 

"  No,  little  one ;  not  doing,  but  doing  by.  He 's 
administering  advice  and  physic  to  them  cormyrants 
of  Queenslanders.  The  Colonials  are  a  hard  race  to 
manage  and  a  greedy.11  Paddy  spoke  with  an  accent 
of  extreme  disfavor. 

"  What  have  the  poor  Queenslanders  done  ?  " 

"  Poor  it  is ;  not  poor  in  spirit,  but  poor  in  judg- 
ment. TheyVe  converted  the  top  course  of  their 
dinner  into  the  bottom  course  of  their  breakfast,  and 
now  theyVe  suffering  according.  Next  time,  when 
their  kyind  officers  order  them  up,  each  a  little 
Crosse  and  Blackwell  plum  pudding,  they  11  know 
enough  to  eat  them  up  hot  on  a  full  stomach,  not 
bolt  them  down  cold  on  top  of  a  lone  layer  of  dog- 
bread.  Man  is  permitted  to  make  such  errors  but 
once  in  his  life,  without  having  Providence  get  after 
him  and  slay  him.  Little  Canuck  ?  " 


188  On  the  Firing  Line 

"Paddy?" 

"  The  top  of  the  ant-hill  is  white  with  heat,  and 
the  lambie  must  enter  the  roasting  tomb.  Will  you 
and  Mr.  Carew  eat  with  me  ?  " 

"WeVe  no  intention  of  eating  anywhere  else, 
Paddy.  We  know  your  cooking  of  old." 

"  It 's  an  honor  you  11  be  doing  me,  then.  And, 
moreover  —  "  Paddy  hesitated,  with  the  words  stick- 
ing to  his  lips. 

"What  now?" 

"  Think  you  the  Captain  —  I  mean  the  Adjutant ; 
but  he  '11  always  be  the  Captain  to  me  —  would  he 
take  it  amiss,  think  you,  little  one,  if  I  sent  him  a 
bit  of  the  joint,  for  the  sake  of  old  times?  He'll 
like  be  eating  truffled  ostrich  and  locust  sauce  at  the 
mess ;  but  Paddy  'd  like  to  have  a  hand  in  his 
Christmas  dinner.  It's  all  I  can  do  for  him.  and 
he 's  done  much  for  me." 

"  Try  him  and  see,  Paddy,"  Weldon  advised.  "  If 
I  know  Captain  Frazer,  he  '11  have  nothing  to-day 
that  will  please  him  more." 

With  feasting  and  story-telling  and  the  inevitable 
letters  to  wife  and  sweetheart,  the  sunshiny  day  lost 
itself  in  twilight  and  the  twilight  in  the  chill  of 
night  Along  the  line  of  the  blockhouses  for  miles 
away,  lights  began  to  twinkle  out  from  the  narrow 
loopholes.  Throughout  the  camp,  answering  lights 
twinkled  back  at  them  till  the  night  was  spotted 
thick  with  dots  of  yellow,  winking  up  at  the  yellow 


On  the  Firing  Line  189 

stars  above.  And  around  the  camp  and  the  block- 
houses lay  the  dark,  measureless  veldt,  and  the  veldt 
was  very  still. 

Stillness  was  not  in  the  camp,  however.  Even  the 
gluttonous  Queenslanders  had  recovered  from  their 
woes  of  the  morning ;  and,  from  end  to  end  of  the 
great  enclosure,  there  was  a  spirit  of  merrymaking 
bom  of  the  feast  day,  the  dinner  and  the  unwonted 
allowance  of  rum.  In  the  groups  scattered  about  the 
camp  fires,  tongues  wagged  freely  of  home,  of  boy- 
hood, of  adventures  in  past  years.  War  talk  was 
tabooed  that  night.  According  to  his  custom, 
Tommy  ignored  the  present  and  ranged  at  large 
over  the  remote  past  and  yet  remoter  future. 

Carew,  with  the  easy  adaptability  which  marked 
him,  was  the  central  figure  of  one  of  the  groups 
where  he  acted  as  a  species  of  toastmaster,  to  direct 
the  trend  of  the  stories  and  lead  the  singing.  Wei- 
don  sat  slightly  apart,  watching  the  firelit  group 
before  him,  while  his  mind  trailed  lazily  to  and  fro, 
from  home,  with  its  holly  wreaths  in  the  windows,  to 
Cape  Town  where  the  flower-boxes  edging  a  wide 
veranda  would  be  a  mass  of  geranium  blossoms  now, 
and  where,  in  the  shady  western  end,  would  sit  a  tall 
girl  with  hair  the  color  of  the  yellow  flame.  Strangely 
enough,  to  his  honest,  straightforward  mind  it  never 
occurred  to  doubt  that  she  was  thinking  of  him,  send- 
ing a  Christmas  wish  in  his  direction.  More  than 
once  she  had  given  proof  of  her  liking  for  him,  her 


190  On  the  Firing  Line 

interest  in  his  concerns.  Her  blue  eyes  had  met 
his  eyes  steadily,  kindly.  Weldon  had  certain  old- 
fashioned  notions  of  womanhood  which  not  all  of 
his  social  life  had  been  able  to  beat  out  of  him.  Far 
back  in  his  boyhood,  his  mother,  still  a  social  leader 
at  home,  had  told  him  it  was  unmanly  to  flirt.  A 
good  and  loyal  woman  would  have  no  share  in  flirta- 
tion ;  women  of  the  other  sort  could  have  no  share 
in  his  life.  Weldon  was  no  Galahad.  He  had 
danced  and  dined  with  many  women,  had  given  sym- 
pathy to  some,  chaff  to  others;  nevertheless,  his 
relations  with  them  had  been  curiously  direct  and 
simple.  Quite  unconsciously  to  himself,  his  mother's 
code  had  become  ingrained  in  the  very  fibre  of  his 
being.  And  now  he  was  ready  to  stand  or  fall  by 
his  judgment  that  Ethel  Dent,  Cooee  as  he  called 
her  in  his  secret  heart,  was  as  good  and  loyal  as  a 
woman  could  be.  The  future  seemed  to  him  so 
obvious  that  he  made  no  effort  to  forecast  it.  He 
was  content  to  wait. 

"  Christmas  is  nearly  over,  Weldon." 

He  roused  himself  abruptly,  as  Captain  Frazer 
dropped  down  at  his  side. 

"  Yes ;  but  the  revel  will  outlast  the  day,"  he 
answered,  laughing.  "  Tommy  is  in  his  glory  now, 
and  it  will  take  more  than  taps  to  make  him 
subside." 

"  Perhaps.  He  has  rioted  most  joyously.  Christ- 
mas has  been  no  empty  mockery  to  him." 


On  the  Firing  Line  191 

Weldon's  quick  ear  detected  a  ring  of  melancholy 
in  the  Captain's  voice. 

"  Has  it  to  you  ? " 

The  Captain  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  winking  fires. 

"  Not  really.  Of  course,  we  all  have  been  a  bit 
homesick,  and  I  can  see  no  shame  in  confessing  it. 
Besides,  after  one  gets  out  of  his  windsor-tie  stage  of 
life,  these  especial  holidays  seem  to  mark  time  so. 
One  thinks  back  to  this  time,  last  year ;  and  one  has 
to  wonder  a  bit  where  he  will  be,  a  year  from  now. 
A  good  deal  can  happen  in  a  year." 

"  For  better,  or  for  worse,'1  Weldon  added. 

The  words  caught  the  Captain's  ear. 

"  Yes,  for  better  or  for  worse,"  he  repeated ;  "  in 
sickness  and  in  health.  A  year  is  a  long  time.  Tell 
me,  have  you  heard  lately  from  Miss  Dent  ?  " 

Long  afterwards,  the  question  came  back  to 
Weldon,  with  the  obvious  association  of  ideas.  Now 
he  answered,  with  perfect  unconcern,  — 

"  Not  for  three  or  four  weeks." 

"  I  have  heard  since  you,  then.  She  wrote,  last 
week,  and  sent  greeting  to  you  and  Mr.  Carew." 

"  Thank  you.  Give  mine  back  to  her ;  that  is,  if 
you  are  writing." 

"  I  shall  write,  to-night,"  the  Captain  said  briefly. 

"  Then  please  send  her  my  wishes  for  Christmas 
and  New  Year's  both.  You  might  also  remind  her  to 
write  to  me.  She  writes  wonderfully  good  letters." 


192  On  the  Firing  Line 

Turning  his  eyes  from  the  fire,  the  Captain  watched 
him  steadily  for  a  moment.  Unconscious  of  his 
companion's  gaze,  Weldon  was  staring  out  across 
the  camp,  his  lips  framed  to  a  noiseless  whistling,  his 
face  full  of  dreamy  content.  The  Captain  studied 
the  happy,  resolute  young  face,  drew  a  deep  breath 
and  then  turned  to  the  fire  once  more. 

"  Yes,"  he  assented.  "  But  you  would  know  that, 
from  hearing  her  talk." 

Suddenly,  Weldon's  lips  straightened,  and  he  faced 
the  Captain  directly. 

"  I  like  Miss  Dent,"  he  said  frankly.  "  Of  course, 
you  know  that.  But,  moreover,  I  have  always  felt  I 
owed  her  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  introducing  me  to 
you.  I  know  one  does  n't  usually  say  such  things, 
Captain  Frazer,"  he  laughed,  in  sudden  boyish  em- 
barrassment ;  "  but  it  is  a  little  different  on  Christ- 
mas night,  you  know.  Next  year,  we  may  be  miles 
apart,  and  so,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  'd  like  to  say  that 
you  have  been  wonderfully  good  to  me,  this  year, 
and  that  I  appreciate  it." 

Captain  Frazer  took  the  outstretched  hand,  slim, 
but  hard  now,  and  a  bit  stubby  about  the  nails. 

"  Thank  you,  Weldon,"  he  answered.  "  This  may 
be  our  only  Christmas  together,  and  I  am  glad  you 
told  me." 

The  silence  about  them  was  broken  by  the  voices 
of  the  soldiers  singing  around  the  camp  fires  and  by 
the  bagpipes  playing  somewhere  across  the  distance. 


On  the  Firing  Line  193 

Then,  after  a  little,  they  fell  to  talking  of  other 
things,  with  the  natural  antipathy  of  healthy  men  to 
any  recurrence  of  a  momentary  outburst  of  senti- 
ment. 

Around  them,  the  fires  flared  and  flamed  across 
the  darkness ;  beyond  them,  the  veldt  stretched  away, 
sinister,  mysterious ;  and  from  above  the  stars 
twinkled  down  upon  them,  smiling  a  Christmas 
blessing  alike  on  those  who  were  doomed  to  glory 
and  those  who  were  doomed  to  death.  For  an 
instant,  the  sudden  pause  in  the  singing  and  laughter 
seemed  typical  of  the  short,  sudden  pause  in  their 
active  lives.  Then,  as  the  Captain  rose,  the  singing 
broke  out  once  more,  Carew's  voice  leading. 

"  Good-night,  Weldon.  I  must  go  back  to  my 
quarters." 

"  And  to  your  letters  ?  " 

"Yes,  to  my  letters.  And  may  next  Christmas 
be  good  to  us  both  !  " 

Weldon  rose  and  saluted,  then  stood  looking  after 
his  companion  as  he  walked  away,  head  and  shoulders 
erect  and  his  lips  smiling  slightly,  as  if  in  anticipa- 
tion of  the  task  before  him.  And,  meanwhile,  from 
the  fire  near  by  came  the  lusty  chorus,  — 

"  A  little  brotvn  cot,  a  shady  green  spot, 
No  happier  home  I  find. 
My  heart 's  fairly  gone,  for  I  love  only  one, 
She 's  the  gi-irl  I  le-eft  behind." 


13 


194  On  the  Firing  Line 

The  voices,  rollicking  even  in  their  sentimentality, 
dropped  away  into  silence;  the  fire  flared  up  and 
then  suddenly  died  away  into  darkness.  But,  even 
in  the  darkness,  Weldon  could  see  the  dim  outline  of 
the  Captain's  figure,  moving  steadily  forward  along 
his  self-appointed  way. 


On  the  Firing  Line  195 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

LORD  KITCHENER,  one  night  in  early  Feb- 
ruary, was  sitting  on  the  apex  of  a  vast  tri- 
angle in  the  northern  end  of  the  Orange 
River  Colony.  Two  sides  of  the  triangle  were  made 
up  of  long  lines  of  blockhouses,  strung  on  a  chain  of 
barbed-wire  fencing.  The  blockhouses  were  of  loop- 
holed  stone  or  iron  with  iron  roofs,  and  they  were 
separated  from  each  other  by  only  a  few  hundred 
yards.  The  barbed-wire  chain  which  strung  together 
these  zigzag  lines  was  five  strands  wide,  and  it  was 
edged  with  a  five-foot  trench  and  now  and  then  with 
an  additional  length  of  stone  wall.  Beyond  the 
fences  were  the  railroad  lines,  and  up  and  down 
over  the  tracks  armored  trains  carrying  search-lights 
were  running  to  and  fro,  to  shed  all  possible  light 
upon  the  fences  and  upon  the  enclosure  beyond. 
The  third  side  of  the  triangle  consisted  of  an  infinite 
number  of  men  in  khaki,  and  its  density  varied 
entirely  according  to  its  position.  At  first,  it 
opened  out  to  a  thin  line  of  troopers  scattered  over 
the  arc  of  an  immense  circle ;  then  it  drew  in  until 
an  army  stood  in  fighting  array  straight  across  the 
veldt  from  Heilbron  to  Kroonstad.  And  Wolve- 
hoek  was  the  apex  of  the  triangle. 

Experience  had  taught  the  master  brain  of  the 


196  On  the  Firing  Line 

British  army  that  it  was  useless  longer  to  chase  De 
Wet  up  and  down  over  the  face  of  the  earth.  The 
Boer  general  was  familiar  with  every  crack  and 
cranny  of  that  earth.  He  knew  where  to  hide, 
where  to  dodge,  where  to  scurry  away  as  fast  as  his 
convoy  train  could  bear  him  company.  Behind  him, 
plucky,  but  totally  in  ignorance  of  the  natural  ad- 
vantages of  the  country,  toiled  and  perspired  and 
skirmished  the  British  army.  Horses  were  exhausted, 
men  were  killed  and  supply  wagons  were  captured, 
all  to  little  or  no  purpose.  If  the  quarry  could  not 
be  taken  by  direct  pursuit,  it  was  needful  to  have 
recourse  to  the  methods  of  the  ranch.  Pursuit  fail- 
ing, it  was  time  for  a  round-up. 

To  this  end,  the  Orange  River  Colony  had  been 
marked  off  into  sections  by  the  rows  of  blockhouses 
strung  upon  barbed  wire.  Drive  after  drive  had 
been  made  into  these  enclosures ;  and  every  drive 
had  brought  its  bag  of  game.  But  still  the  general 
himself  had  eluded  them.  Early  in  February,  how- 
ever, a  giant  drive  had  been  planned,  directed  away 
from  the  enclosure  in  order  that,  once  De  Wet  took 
refuge  in  his  usual  trick  of  doubling  back  upon  his 
pursuers,  he  should  find  himself  caught  in  the  open 
trap.  And,  secure  in  the  ultimate  success  of  his 
plan,  Lord  Kitchener  waited  at  Wolvehoek  in  ex- 
pectation of  its  end. 

The  drive  had  been  made,  De  Wet  had  doubled, 
and  now  the  base  of  the  triangle  was  flowing  in 


On  the  Firing  Line  197 

upon  him,  fully  confident  of  success  at  last.  And 
the  base  was  in  part  made  up  of  the  South  African 
Light  Horse,  and  Carew  and  Weldon  were  of  that 
Horse,  and  they  rejoiced  accordingly. 

Nightfall  of  the  sixth  found  the  quarry  well  inside 
the  triangle,  and  the  South  African  Light  Horse 
drawn  up  in  a  straight  line  running  westward  from 
Lindley.  The  officers  slept  in  their  boots,  that 
night,  and  every  trooper  held  himself  tense  in  his 
blankets,  ready  to  cease  snoring  at  an  instant's 
notice.  And  far  away  to  the  northward,  the  moving 
search-lights  carved  the  frosty  darkness  with  their 
blinding  cones  of  light. 

Weldon  was  ordered  out  on  picket  duty,  that 
night.  All  day  long,  he  had  ridden  hard,  until  even 
the  zeal  of  Piggie  had  begun  to  flag.  Nevertheless, 
as  the  broad  stripe  of  yellow  reluctantly  died  out  of 
the  western  sky,  his  excited  brain  denied  to  his  tired 
muscles  the  sleep  which  they  demanded.  Accord- 
ingly, it  was  a  relief  when  his  orders  came,  and  he 
found  himself  advancing  cautiously  out  into  the 
shadowy  veldt. 

Contrary  to  his  usual  mood  when  on  picket, 
Weldon  had  no  sense  of  loneliness,  that  night. 
Reaching  away  from  him  on  either  hand  was  the 
huge  enclosing  wall  of  humanity,  pacing  to  and  fro 
on  picket  duty,  guarding  the  blockhouses,  patrolling 
the  wire  fences  between.  Every  man  was  alert  to  his 
duty;  every  nerve  was  taut  with  the  consciousness 


198    «        On  the  Firing  Line 

that  somewhere  within  the  cordon  was  the  leader 
who  heretofore  had  escaped  them,  that  each  man 
was  a  link  forged  in  the  endless  chain  which  was 
stretched  around  the  invisible  enemy.  And,  mean- 
while, the  starless  sky  and  the  waiting  chain  were 
equally  silent  and  equally  freighted  with  mystery. 
And  the  future  seemed  full  of  portent  and  very  near. 

Then,  as  the  midnight  hour  swung  past  him, 
Weldon  heard  the  rustle  of  a  quiet  footfall.  It  was 
Captain  Frazer's  voice  that  answered  his  challenge. 

"  I  was  looking  for  you,  Weldon,11  he  added. 

"  For  anything  especial  ? "" 

"No.  I  felt  restless  and  couldn't  sleep,  so  I 
thought  I  would  go  the  round  of  the  pickets.  They 
said  you  were  out  here.  Where  is  Carew  ?  " 

"  In  my  sleeping-bag.  I  don't  encourage  him  for 
a  neighbor  just  now.  He  draws  too  much  fire.11 

The  Captain  laughed  softly. 

"  He  is  an  unlucky  beggar.  Eight,  nine,  how 
many  times  is  it  that  he  has  been  hit  ?  He  ought 
to  engage  a  private  nurse.11 

"He  has.11  And  Weldon  explained  the  little 
scene  at  the  door  of  the  hospital  tent. 

"  Happy  fellow  !  He  deserves  her,  though.  But 
it  is  an  ideal  combination,  that  of  nurse  and  soldier,11 
the  Captain  answered  lightly.  Then  he  asked, 
"  What  sort  of  a  day  have  you  had  ?  " 

"  Rousing.  Now  the  question  is :  what  sort  of  a 
night  are  we  going  to  have  ?  " 


On  the  Firing  Line  199 

"  The  night  of  our  lives,  I  suspect,"  the  Captain 
replied,  still  in  the  low  tone  in  which  all  their  talk 
had  been  made.  "  The  orders  are  to  close  in  at  day- 
light, and  work  the  game  up  towards  Wolvehoek; 
but,  if  I  know  anything  at  all  of  De  Wet,  he  won't 
wait  till  daylight." 

"  You  think  he  will  fight  ?  " 

"  If  he  does,  it  will  be  a  fight  to  the  finish,"  the 
Captain  said  gravely. 

Weldon's  grip  tightened  on  his  rifle. 

"  When  will  it  come  ?  " 

"  Heaven  only  knows.  Probably  just  before  light. 
He  will  take  this  end  of  things,  on  account  of  avoid- 
ing the  railroads  and  —  " 

Weldon's  hand  shut  on  his  arm. 

"Hush!     What's  that?" 

Swiftly  the  Captain's  gravity  vanished,  and  he 
laughed. 

"  By  George,  here  they  are ! "  he  exclaimed. 

From  the  veldt  to  the  northward,  there  came  a 
confused  din  of  rushing,  trampling  feet ;  a  cloud  of 
dust,  lifted  on  the  night  breeze,  swept  down  upon 
them  ;  and  then  a  herd  of  stampeding  cattle  dashed 
madly  past,  noses  to  earth  and  tails  lashing  in  fu- 
rious fear.  An  instant  later,  the  darkness  to  the  left 
was  shattered  by  dots  of  light,  and  the  air  snapped 
with  the  double  crack  of  Mauser  rifles.  Far  to  the 
northward,  though  muffled  by  distance,  there  was 
more  firing,  and  yet  more;  and  ever  the  moving 


200  On  the  Firing  Line 

searchlights  carved  their  way  to  and  fro  through 
the  inky  night. 

Like  a  dog  on  the  scent  and  ready  for  the  plunge, 
Captain  Frazer  had  straightened  to  the  full  of  his 
height  and  stood  tense,  waiting  an  instant  to  meas- 
ure the  scope  of  the  coming  fight. 

"  It 's  a  row,  sure  enough ;  and  thank  God,  I  "m  in 
it!"  he  said  quietly  then.  "Come  back  to  the  line, 
Weldon.  There'll  be  work  for  us  all,  in  a  few 
minutes." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  and  while  they  were  hurrying 
back  to  the  squadron,  a  random  shot  pierced  the 
darkness  just  before  them,  and  a  bullet  whirred  close 
above  their  heads.  Another  shot  tossed  up  a  spray 
of  dust  at  their  feet,  and  a  third  fell  full  in  the  tent 
where  Carew  was  swiftly  tightening  his  belts  and 
assuring  himself  that  his  bandoliers  were  full. 

They  found  the  camp  already  humming  like  a  hive 
of  angry  bees.  A  small  matter  of  forty  miles  a  day 
counted  for  nothing  to  men  wakened  from  heavy 
sleep  to  face  the  firing  of  an  invisible  foe.  There 
was  no  need  of  the  murmured  report  that  De  Wet 
had  bidden  his  followers  break  through  the  Brit- 
ish chain  wherever  its  links  were  weakest.  Instinc- 
tively each  man  threw  himself  into  fighting  array, 
convinced  that  the  present  minute  marked  the 
climax  of  the  past  days. 

And,  meanwhile,  the  limitless  darkness  shut  down 
over  the  determined  cordon  of  British  men  facing 


On  the  Firing  Line  201 

steadily  inward  towards  the  foe  which  they  could 
not  see ;  over  the  scattered  knots  of  Boer  horsemen, 
secure  in  their  full  knowledge  of  every  yard  of  the 
ground,  riding  forward  to  fight  their  way  through 
the  chain  into  the  veldt  beyond.  And,  far  to  the 
northward,  De  Wet  was  lurking  in  shadow  long 
enough  to  cut  the  wires  and  then  ride  away  with  his 
trio  of  faithful  followers. 

To  Weldon,  fresh  from  the  darkness  and  silence 
of  the  open  veldt,  it  seemed  as  if,  of  a  sudden,  the 
frosty  night  were  tattered  into  shreds.  As  the  fight 
waxed  hot  about  him,  he  lost  all  memory  of  the  in- 
termediate stages.  At  one  instant,  all  had  been 
still  and  dim ;  at  another,  the  air  before  him  was 
thick  with  vivid  rifle  flashes,  his  ears  were  full  of  the 
strident  din  of  flying  bullets,  of  shouting  men,  of 
squealing,  moaning  horses.  For  a  time,  he  could  see 
nothing  of  the  enemy  but  the  flashing  dots  of  fire. 
Then  the  dots  drew  nearer,  closed  up,  and  the  din 
was  increased  by  the  rattle  of  fixing  bayonets,  by 
the  dull,  sucking  sound  of  steel  prodded  into  soft 
masses,  and  by  the  thud  of  falling  bodies.  And 
always  from  the  outer  circle  the  pitiless  rain  of 
bullets  came  splashing  down  upon  them,  striking 
impartially  on  friend  and  on  foe. 

Side  by  side  in  the  foremost  rank,  Weldon  and 
Carew  were  fighting  like  tigers.  Carew's  cheek  was 
gashed  by  a  passing  bullet,  and  Weldon's  coat 
showed  dark  and  wet  over  his  left  shoulder;  but 


202  On  the  Firing  Line 

neither  man  was  conscious  of  pain,  or  of  fear,  or  of 
anything  else  than  a  surly  determination  to  check 
the  maddening  rush  before  them.  Carew  was  slash- 
ing about  him  with  all  the  strength  of  arm  and 
bayonet ;  but  Weldon,  disdaining  his  bayonet,  was 
firing  with  a  steady  aim  which  sent  one  man  and 
then  another  to  join  the  heap  on  the  ground  at  his 
feet. 

A  second  bullet  grazed  his  wrist,  and  a  horseman 
swept  down  upon  him.  For  an  instant,  he  wavered. 
Then  he  straightened  his  shoulders  and  took  careful 
aim.  From  ten  feet  away,  he  had  heard  a  ringing 
order,  and  the  order  had  been  given,  not  in  the 
voice  of  his  own  captain,  but  in  that  of  Captain 
Frazer  who,  as  ranking  officer,  had  taken  command  of 
the  fight  into  which  chance  had  led  him.  Weldon's 
every  nerve  answered  to  the  tonic  of  that  voice. 
Not  since  Vlaakfontein  had  he  been  under  its  com- 
mand. Nevertheless,  the  old  spell  was  upon  him, 
and  he  responded  to  its  call.  An  instant  before, 
the  rush  towards  him  had  seemed  indomitable. 
Those  furious,  fighting  horsemen  could  not  be  stayed 
in  their  course.  Now  he  braced  himself  for  the  shock 
of  their  coming,  while  tired  hand  and  blurring  eye 
roused  themselves  to  do  the  bidding  of  his  brain. 
He  was  dimly  aware  that  Paddy  had  struggled  for- 
ward to  his  other  side  and,  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  him,  was  helping  to  beat  back  the  iron-like 
force  pressing  down  upon  them.  Then,  with  the 


On  the  Firing  Line  203 

keen  grasp  of  trifling  detail  which  often  marks  the 
supreme  moment  of  mental  exhaustion,  he  became 
conscious  that  the  hairy  tail  which  brushed  across 
his  face  was  unduly  coarse  and  tangled,  while  a 
sudden  cheer  from  around  him  told  that  the  Boers 
were  turning  in  flight. 

Dazed,  he  drew  his  hand  across  his  face,  and  stared 
wonderingly  at  the  scarlet  drops  on  his  fingers. 
Then  he  turned  and  looked  down  at  Paddy  with  a 
whimsical,  questioning  smile.  Paddy  repeated  his 
query. 

"Are  you  hurt,  little  one?"  he  demanded,  for  the 
second  time,  as  he  shook  Weldon's  arm. 

Weldon  steadied  at  the  touch. 

"  No ;  only  scratched  a  bit.  It  is  nothing  to  last 
at  all.  Are  you  all  right  ?  " 

Paddy  shut  his  hand  over  a  shattered  finger. 

"  Glory  be !  And  the  snakes  of  Boers  is  wriggling 
off  to  their  holes.  And  now,  where 's  the  Captain  ?" 

They  found  him  a  little  apart  from  the  line, 
slightly  to  the  front  and  close  beside  a  scattered 
heap  of  bearded  men.  His  face  was  white  and  the 
lines  of  his  face  were  rigid  and  drawn ;  but  he 
hailed  them  just  as  he  always  had  been  used  to  do. 

"  My  luck  has  changed,"  he  added  quietly.  "  They 
have  taken  my  leg,  this  time.  Still,  it 's  not  so  very 
painful.  I'll  fill  my  pipe  first,  and  then  will  you 
two  fellows  help  me  back,  till  we  can  find  an  am- 
bulance ?  " 


204  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

IN  a  quiet  corner  of  the  crowded  hospital  at 
Johannesburg,  one  narrow  bed  was  screened 
away  from  its  neighbors.  Beside  the  bed  sat 
Ethel  Dent,  and  Weldon  leaned  against  the  wall  be- 
yond. Both  of  them  were  smiling  bravely  down 
into  the  dark-fringed  blue  eyes  which  met  their  eyes 
with  a  steady  wishfulness.  With  the  end  so  plain 
in  sight,  why  keep  up  the  pretence  of  being  blind  to 
its  approach  ? 

An  operation  had  been  the  final  chance,  and  the 
chance  had  failed.  Out  from  the  stupor  of  ether, 
out  from  the  hours  of  bewildering  pain,  Captain 
Frazer  had  come  back  to  an  interval  of  full  conscious- 
ness, of  fuller  knowledge  that,  for  him,  this  painless 
interval  was  but  the  prelude  to  the  final  painless 
sleep.  Nevertheless,  the  man  who  had  helped  other 
men  to  die  unflinchingly  was  facing  death  with  a 
grave,  unflinching  smile,  albeit  life  to  him  was  good 
and  full  of  promise.  The  interval  was  short.  He 
would  pass  through  it  in  manlike  fashion,  and, 
meanwhile,  give  thanks  that  beside  his  bed  sat  the 
one  woman  in  whom  his  whole  future  so  long  had 
centered. 

The  slow  moments  passed  by,  unheeded.  It  was 
an  hour  since  the  surgeons  had  gone  away  ;  it  was 


On  the  Firing  Line  205 

nearly  an  hour  since  Alice  Mellen  had  followed  the 
surgeons.  Instinctively  she  realized  that  her  place 
was  otherwhere.  There  was  no  need  now  for  skilled 
nurses.  Ethel  could  do  all  the  little  which  would 
be  required,  and  it  was  Ethel's  right  to  stay. 

Since  Alice  had  left  them,  no  word  had  been 
spoken.  The  Captain  had  little  strength  for  words 
as  yet.  It  was  taking  all  his  energy  and  courage  to 
face  the  truth  and  to  accept  it.  Only  an  hour  be- 
fore, his  crippled  career  had  seemed  to  him  unbear- 
able. Now,  as  he  lay  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  girl 
beside  him,  he  realized  how  much  of  potential  sweet- 
ness that  dreary  alternative  had  held.  And  yet, 
Fate  had  drawn  him  into  the  battle,  and  it  was 
something  that  he  had  met  Fate  bravely  and  in  the 
foremost  rank.  So  far,  he  had  never  funked  a  fight ; 
if  it  took  his  last  bit  of  strength,  he  would  go  pluck- 
ily  through  this  last,  worse  fight  which  he  was  des- 
tined to  face.  He  stirred  slightly,  and  shut  his 
teeth  on  his  lower  lip ;  but  his  eyes  never  dropped 
from  Ethel's  face. 

From  the  farther  side  of  the  bed,  Weldon,  too, 
was  watching  Ethel.  If  he  lived  to  full  fivescore 
years,  he  could  never  forget  her  face  as  he  had  met 
her  at  the  hospital  door,  that  morning.  Exhausted 
with  the  excitement  of  the  battle,  stiff  with  his  half- 
dressed  wounds,  soiled  and  untidy  and  haggard,  he 
had  paused  beside  the  ambulance  while  the  attend- 
ants had  lifted  the  stretcher  and  borne  the  Captain 


206  On  the  Firing  Line 

up  the  low  flight  of  steps.  Then,  like  a  man  in  a 
dream,  he  had  followed  along  behind  them  until,  on 
the  very  threshold,  he  had  raised  his  heavy  eyes  to 
see  Ethel  standing  before  him,  a  broad  shaft  of  sun- 
shine pouring  down  upon  her  to  rest  in  the  locks  of 
sunshiny  hair  which  straggled  out  from  beneath  her 
crisp  white  cap. 

"  Cooee ! "  he  said  huskily,  as  he  took  her  hand. 
Then,  for  the  first  time  in  all  those  terrible  hours 
since  the  battle,  his  lips  had  quivered,  and  two  big, 
boyish  tears  had  rolled  out  across  his  cheeks. 

Already  the  fight  seemed  to  him  to  be  months 
old.  From  the  first,  it  had  been  the  Captain's  wish 
that  Weldon  should  go  with  him  to  the  hospital,  and 
Weldon  would  have  allowed  no  other  man  to  go  in 
his  place.  Wounded  and  weak  from  loss  of  blood, 
nevertheless  he  forgot  his  own  weakness  as  he  saw 
the  leg,  shattered  by  two  bullets,  explosive  bullets 
such  as  are  denied  to  warfare  of  any  but  barbarous 
nations.  Young  though  he  was,  Weldon  had  seen 
many  a  man  wounded  before  now.  He  was  not  slow 
to  realize  the  nature  of  the  alternatives  which  lay 
before  the  man  who  was  at  once  his  hero  and  his 
friend.  Mercifully,  he  had  as  yet  no  knowledge  how 
soon  the  one  alternative  must  be  taken  from  him. 

The  case  was  too  grave  a  one  for  the  surgeons  of 
the  field  hospital.  In  after  years,  that  ambulance 
journey  into  Kroonstad  seemed  branded  upon  Wei- 
don's  memory:  the  baking  heat  of  the  February 


On  the  Firing  Line  207 

sun,  the  interminable  miles  of  dusty  road  stretching 
away  between  other  interminable  miles  of  grassy 
veldt,  scarred  and  seamed  here  and  there  with  ridges 
of  naked  rock.  And  at  last  the  ambulance  had 
jogged  into  Kroonstad,  only  to  find  that  no  help  lay 
in  the  hospital  there,  that  the  journey  must  be  dragged 
onward  through  a  night  ride  to  Johannesburg. 

If  the  jolting,  crawling  ambulance  had  been  bad, 
the  jarring  train  was  infinitely  worse.  The  Captain 
made  no  complaints ;  he  was  grateful  for  every  slight 
attention  ;  he  even  forced  himself  to  joke  a  little  now 
and  then.  Nevertheless,  Weldon,  sitting  beside  him 
and  occasionally  laying  his  own  fingers  across  the 
steady  hand  on  the  blanket,  was  maddened  by  the 
noise  of  the  engine,  by  the  ceaseless  ihud^  thud  as 
the  wheels  took  every  new  rail,  by  the  roar,  and  the 
rush,  and  the  dust  which  filtered  in  upon  them. 
There  was  nothing  he  could  do.  He  merely  sat 
there  beside  his  friend,  and  thought.  Occasionally, 
he  thought  of  Ethel ;  but,  for  the  most  part,  his 
mind  was  on  the  man  before  him,  the  man  whose 
active  career  all  at  once  had  been  cut  in  two.  Now 
and  then  he  thought  of  the  one  who  had  chosen  to 
fire  those  bullets,  taboo  of  all  but  the  most  brutal 
warfare.  At  such  times,  he  rose  and  fell  to  pacing 
restlessly  up  and  down  the  car.  Then  he  controlled 
himself  and  resumed  his  seat. 

Moment  by  moment,  almost  second  by  second,  the 
dreary  night  had  worn  away.  It  was  full  morning 


208  On  the  Firing  Line 

when  the  train  had  halted  inside  the  familiar  station. 
After  his  vigil,  the  healthy  stir  of  the  streets  ap- 
peared to  Weldon  like  the  confused  picture  of  a 
dream,  and  it  had  been  like  a  man  in  a  dream  that 
he  had  been  driven  away  to  the  hospital.  Then,  on 
the  steps,  he  had  seen  Ethel,  and  the  dream  had 
been  shattered,  giving  way,  for  the  instant,  to  the 
perfect  happiness  of  reality. 

But  the  surgeons  at  Johannesburg  had  shaken 
their  heads.  The  delay,  although  unavoidable,  had 
been  full  of  danger.  One  only  chance  remained, 
and  they  would  take  that  chance.  Weldon  had 
lingered  until  he  was  ordered  away ;  then,  with 
Ethel  beside  him,  he  had  gone  to  find  a  doctor  who 
could  dress  his  own  wounds  and  make  him  fit  to  face 
the  ordeal  which  he  knew  was  awaiting  him.  For 
one  short  moment,  he  had  felt  Ethel's  hands  busy 
about  his  shoulder  and  head  and  wrist,  had  rejoiced 
in  the  quiet  strength  of  their  soothing  touch.  For 
another  moment,  their  eyes  had  met ;  but  no  word 
had  been  spoken  between  them.  Then  Alice  had 
come  to  them,  bringing  the  surgeon's  verdict.  That 
had  been  an  hour  before.  Now  they  still  were 
there,  watching  the  slow  approach  of  the  inevitable 
summons. 

Slowly  the  day  waxed  —  and  waned.  For  the 
waning  life,  there  was  no  interval  of  waxing.  Slowly, 
steadily,  by  infinitesimal  degrees,  Leo  Frazer  was 
sinking  down  into  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow.  Once 


On  the  Firing  Line  209 

the  head  surgeon  had  stepped  behind  the  screens 
and  bent  over  the  bed.  Only  Ethel  had  seen  the 
brief  contraction  of  his  brows ;  but  no  one  of  them 
was  deceived  by  his  cheery  words  of  parting.  And 
still  the  blue  eyes  rested  upon  Ethel,  as  if  seeking  to 
gain  from  her  the  answer  to  some  unspoken  question, 
as  if  begging  her  to  share  with  him  some  fraction  of 
her  quiet  strength. 

Now  and  then  Ethel  wondered  at  her  own  quiet. 
This  was  the  second  week  of  her  promised  month 
with  her  cousin ;  but  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
come  face  to  face  with  death,  the  first  time,  too, 
that  her  work  had  taken  on  any  hint  of  personality. 
Now,  suddenly  confronted  with  these  three,  Death 
and  the  two  men  who,  during  the  past  fourteen 
months,  had  played  so  active  parts  in  her  life,  she 
was  surprised  to  find  that  she  faced  them  steadily 
and  in  silence.  As  yet,  she  felt  no  wish  to  make  any 
moan.  That  would  come  later,  when  her  nerves  had 
relaxed  a  little  from  the  stretching  strain.  And, 
meanwhile,  as  she  sat  watching  the  face  on  the 
pillow,  grieving  for  the  waning  life,  now  and  then 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  other  face  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  bed,  and  told  herself  that  Fate,  harsh  as 
it  was,  was  yet  not  altogether  unpitying.  Although 
wounded  and  worn  and  sick  at  heart,  Weldon  was 
with  her,  and  intensely  alive. 

"Ethel!" 

Bending  forward,  she  laid  her  strong,  firm  hand 
14 


210  On  the  Firing  Line 

upon  the  hand  of  the  Captain,  noting,  as  she  did  so, 
that  the  finger  tips  were  cold  to  her  own  warm 
touch. 

*  Yes  ?  "  she  said  gently. 

"  You  are  here  ?  It  troubles  me  to  see.  Stay 
with  me  to  the  end,  Ethel.  It  won't  be  so  very 
long." 

She  bowed  her  head ;  but  the  answer  came  firmly. 

"  I  will  stay." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then,  gathering  to- 
gether all  his  strength,  the  Captain  went  on  quite 
steadily,  — 

"It  won't  be  so  very  long,  Ethel.  I  am  sorry. 
I  liked  to  live.  I  have  had  a  good  time,  and  I  had 
no  idea  that  my  good  times  were  so  nearly  over. 
Not  that  it  would  have  made  much  difference, 
though.  And  yet,  when  one  comes  to  the  end,  all 
of  a  sudden,  one  finds  a  great  many  things  that  are 
left  unfinished." 

She  made  no  attempt  to  answer. 

Gently  he  urged  the  final  words  upon  her  atten- 
tion. 

"  There  are  always  so  many  things  left  unfinished," 
he  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  faintly. 

Slowly,  as  if  its  weight  dragged  sorely  upon  his 
failing  strength,  he  raised  her  hand  to  the  pillow 
and  rested  his  cheek  upon  it. 
.    "Don't  cry,  Ethel,"  he  said  then.     "  Of  course,  if 


On  the  Firing  Line  211 

I  had  lived,  it  might  have  meant  so  much  to  us 
both/' 

Involuntarily  she  caught  her  breath  and  made  a 
swift  gesture,  as  if  to  withdraw  her  hand.  Then, 
with  a  hasty  glance  at  Weldon,  leaning  against  the 
opposite  wall,  she  controlled  herself  and  allowed  her 
hand  to  rest  where  it  was. 

"  It  would  have  meant  so  much  to  all  of  us, 
Captain  Frazer." 

"  Perhaps.  But  to  you  and  me  —  Ethel,  I  can't 
go  out  of  life  and  give  you  up ! "  Pitifdlly,  long- 
ingly, the  blue  eyes  stared  up  at  her  face  through 
the  growing  shadows  of  waning  day  and  waning  life. 
Longingly,  although  the  questioning  look  had  left 
them.  In  its  place  was  an  infinite,  contented  love, 
an  absolute  trust. 

The  girl  nerved  herself  to  meet  his  eyes.  Then 
she  drew  her  own  eyes  away,  to  give  another  hasty, 
appealing  glance  up  into  Weldon's  paling  face.  For 
him,  as  for  her,  the  moment  was  all  unexpected. 
For  him,  as  for  her,  there  was  need  of  all  the  reserve 
strength  in  life  to  go  through  it  honorably  and 
without  flinching. 

Up  to  that  very  hour,  no  thought  of  Leo  Frazer's 
love  had  crossed  the  mind  of  Ethel  Dent.  They 
had  been  friends,  good  comrades,  meeting  often  and 
always  with  much  pleasure.  She  had  acknowledged 
to  herself,  long  since,  that  he  was  a  man  among 
men ;  she  honored  him,  admired  him,  cared  for  him 


212  On  the  Firing  Line 

as  she  might  have  cared  for  an  only  brother.  Be- 
yond that,  she  could  not  go.  Moreover,  it  had 
never  occurred  to  her  that  Captain  Frazer  could 
mistake  her  attitude  to  himself,  could  differentiate 
her  light,  bright  cordiality  from  the  cordiality  she 
showed  to  other  men.  When  she  had  met  him  first, 
she  had  been  a  mere  girl  in  character  and  experience ; 
love  had  had  scant  place  in  her  girlish  dreams. 
Later,  Weldon  had  come  into  her  life.  His  coming 
had  changed  many  things  for  her ;  but  it  had  made 
no  change  in  her  attitude  to  the  Captain.  She  was 
now,  as  always,  his  loyal,  admiring  friend,  no  less,  no 
more.  She  had  supposed  that  he  had  felt  the  same 
loyal  friendship  for  her.  Too  late,  she  realized  her 
mistake. 

"  You  must  have  known  it  all,  Ethel,""  the  Captain 
was  saying  steadily ;  "  how  my  whole  life  has  seemed 
to  go  into  yours.  I  have  never  told  you.  I  was  sure 
you  knew  it,  without  any  telling,  and  I  have  been 
waiting  until  the  war  was  over,  before  asking  you  to 
go  home  with  me,  as  my  wife.  The  —  "  he  caught 
his  breath  sharply,  "  the  war  is  over  for  me  now, 
dearest.  I  can't  ask  you  to  go  home  with  me  ;  but  — 
Tell  me,  Ethel,  I  have  not  been  mistaken,  all  these 
months  ?  You  have  cared  for  me,  as  I  have  cared  for 
you?"  The  last  words  came  out  with  the  roundness 
of  tone  he  had  used  in  health;  but  there  was  a 
weary  drag  to  the  hand  that  drew  her  hand  still 
nearer  to  his  cheek. 


On  the  Firing  Line  213 

Ethel  faltered.  Then,  soldier-like,  she  braced 
herself  to  fight  to  a  finish.  It  was  not  her  fault 
that  the  man  had  mistaken  her  friendly,  cordial 
liking  for  something  deeper,  infinitely  more  lasting. 
She  had  never  consciously  played  with  him,  never 
sought  to  win  his  love.  Blame  there  was  none  ;  it 
was  all  only  a  mistake,  albeit  a  terrible  one.  Never- 
theless — 

Desperately  she  glanced  up  from  the  blue  eyes, 
still  so  wishfully  fixed  upon  her  own,  up  to  the 
drawn,  white  face  of  the  haggard  man  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  bed.  In  that  instant,  the  girl  fought 
madly  with  herself.  Then  her  eyes  dropped  back  to 
the  bed  once  more.  Eternity  and  time ;  a  final 
short,  comforting  word  to  the  one,  a  long  explanation 
to  the  other.  The  mistake,  if  mistake  there  were, 
had  been  all  of  her  doing.  Bravely  she  would  take 
the  bitter  consequences.  Captain  Frazer's  day  was 
passing  fast.  The  night  remained  for  her  talk  with 
Weldon.  Her  eyes  dropped  back  to  the  bed,  and 
her  hand  yielded  itself  to  the  pressure  of  the  ice-cold 
fingers. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  slowly  arid  so  faintly  that  Weldon, 
standing  breathless,  could  scarcely  hear  the  words; 
"  I  have  cared  for  you,  as  you  have  cared  for  me.11 

The  fingers  tightened  over  her  hand;  but  the 
lids  drooped  heavily  above  the  dark  blue  eyes. 

"  Dearest  — girl.""  Then,  smiling  to  himself,  Cap- 
tain Leo  Frazer  fell  asleep. 


214  On  the  Firing  Line 

The  next  moment  counted  itself  out  by  slow 
seconds.  Then  Ethel  raised  her  head  and  turned 
to  smile  drearily  up  at  Weldon. 

Instead,  she  found  herself  smiling  up  at  an  empty 
wall.  Harvard  Weldon  had  vanished  and  had  left 
for  her  no  word  of  farewell. 


On  the  Firing  Line  215 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

UP  Commissioner  Street  and  down  Commis- 
sioner Street  and  around  and  around 
Market  Square  tramped  a  haggard  man  in 
khaki  who  surveyed  all  things  with  dull,  unseeing 
eyes.  On  his  cheek,  an  inch  or  so  above  his  stubbly 
beard,  was  a  wide  cross  of  plaster,  and  his  left  wrist 
wore  a  narrow  bandage.  He  walked  with  quick, 
nervous  strides ;  yet  every  now  and  then  he  halted 
to  rest  for  a  moment.  Then  he  hurried  on  again,  as 
if  pursued  by  some  unseen,  but  malignant  foe. 

Twice  he  turned  northward  and  paused  before  the 
hospital,  staring  irresolutely  up  at  the  lighted  win- 
dows. Then,  facing  about  abruptly,  he  moved  on, 
swiftly,  but  with  the  mechanical  tread  of  a  man  in  a 
dream.  Once  he  found  himself  resting  on  the  steps 
of  the  Jewish  synagogue.  The  next  time  he  roused 
himself  to  take  note  of  his  surroundings,  he  was  at 
the  Berea  Estate,  following  Hospital  Hill  straight 
to  the  eastward.  It  was  then  that  he  had  turned 
about  and  faced  back  to  the  hospital.  A  scant  half- 
dozen  hours  before,  that  hospital  had  held  what  was 
all  the  world  to  him.  Now,  without  warning,  that 
all  had  proved  to  be  naught. 

The  blow  had  come  crashing  upon  him,  straight 
between  the  eyes  and  so  suddenly  that  there  had 


216  On  the  Firing  Line 

been  no  time  for  him  to  brace  himself  to  meet  it. 
From  the  moment  of  his  facing  Ethel  in  the  doorway 
of  the  hospital,  that  noon,  he  had  been  sure  that  the 
talk  which  he  would  have  with  her,  that  evening, 
could  bring  but  the  one  ending.  At  sight  of  the  soiled 
and  haggard  man  before  her,  her  blue  eyes  had 
lighted  with  something  far  more  than  pleased  sur- 
prise. His  appearing  had  been  quite  unexpected ; 
her  meeting  with  him  had  been  the  naked  impulse 
of  her  girlish  heart.  And,  all  that  endless  day,  her 
grief  for  the  Captain  had  in  no  way  hidden  her  evi- 
dent pleasure  in  his  own  presence.  And  then,  all  at 
once,  had  come  the  end,  unexpected  and  hence 
doubly  crushing.  His  young,  newborn  happiness 
was  as  little  strong  to  bear  the  blow  as  were  his  ex- 
hausted body  and  his  shattered  nerve.  Like  a  wild 
beast  wounded  to  the  death,  he  had  crept  silently 
away,  to  go  through  his  agony,  unseen. 

Standing  under  the  fierce  glare  of  the  electric 
light  by  the  hospital  gate,  his  appearance  would 
wellnigh  have  baffled  the  recognition  of  his  mother. 
Soiled  and  stained  and  tattered,  his  head  sunk  be- 
tween his  shoulders,  he  looked  a  feeble  man  of  middle 
years.  Dark  shadows  lay  around  his  heavy  gray 
eyes,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  drooped  pitifully. 
And,  somewhere  inside  that  building,  was  the  girl 
who  had  snatched  away  from  him  what  was  dearer 
than  life  itself.  For  six  long  months  she  had  been 
the  incentive  to  all  of  his  best  work  ;  it  had  been  her 


On  the  Firing  Line  217 

influence  which  finally  had  led  him  to  come  back 
into  the  firing  line  ;  it  had  been  in  the  hope  for  the 
future,  a  hope  growing  less  and  less  vague  as  the 
months  passed  by,  that  he  had  been  willing  and  glad 
to  prolong  his  stay  through  one  more  torrid  African 
summer.  And  to  what  end  ? 

Strange  to  say,  it  never  once  occurred  to  him  to 
try  to  win  her  love  now,  after  all  that  had  passed. 
Still  less  did  it  occur  to  him  to  doubt  the  truth  of 
her  final  words  to  the  Captain.  Weldon  had  missed 
the  look  of  appealing  anguish  in  the  blue  eyes  which 
she  had  lifted  to  his  ;  but  he  had  heard  the  low, 
steady  voice,  had  seen  the  pressure  of  the  living 
fingers  answer  to  the  slight  movement  of  the  hand 
already  growing  cold.  He  had  heard,  and  seen.  It 
was  enough.  Always  he  had  believed  implicitly  in 
Ethel's  truth.  There  was  no  reason  he  should  dis- 
trust her  now.  It  was  only  that  he  had  been  an 
egregious  ass  to  think  that  he  could  win  her  love,  in 
the  face  of  a  man  like  Captain  Leo  Frazer.  With  a 
mighty  effort,  he  straightened  his  shoulders,  faced 
the  wing  where  he  knew  the  Captain  would  now  be 
lying  and  reverently  removed  his  hat.  Then,  for 
one  last  time,  his  eyes  swept  over  the  building  and, 
turning  away,  he  crawled  off  towards  the  railway 
station. 

And,  meanwhile,  alone  in  a  room  behind  one  of 
those  brightly-lighted  windows,  a  girl  sat  huddled 
together,  her  crossed  arms  on  her  knees  and  her  face 


218  On  the  Firing  Line 

buried  in  her  arms,  while  she  wailed  to  herself  over 
and  over  again,  — 

"  He  might  have  waited  !  He  might  have  waited  ! 
My  God  in  heaven,  what  have  I  done  ?  But  at 
least  he  might  have  waited  ! " 

A  commissariat  train  was  leaving  Johannesburg 
at  two  o'clock  the  next  morning.  His  pass  in  his 
hand,  Weldon  clambered  drearily  on  the  train  for 
the  long  ride  back  to  Kroonstad.  Motion  of  any 
kind  was  better  than  remaining  longer  in  Johannes- 
burg. Nevertheless,  the  jolting  of  the  train  was 
wellnigh  unbearable.  His  shoulder  throbbed,  and 
the  dull  pain  in  his  head  was  maddening.  He  had 
passed  the  stage  of  weariness,  however,  where  one  is 
conscious  of  exhaustion.  An  ever- tightening  strain 
was  upon  him.  He  could  not  rest  now  ;  he  must  go 
on,  and  on,  and  on,  faster  and  ever  faster,  until  at 
last  something  should  snap  and  quiet  perforce  should 
overtake  him. 

Early  dawn  found  him  at  Kroonstad.  Sleep  had 
been  impossible  for  him  ;  he  had  no  appetite  for 
food,  and  it  took  an  ever-increasing  effort  for  him  to 
pull  himself  together.  Like  a  man  mounting  a 
steep,  pathless  hill,  he  tried  to  drag  himself  up 
above  the  consciousness  of  his  aching  head  and  throb- 
bing wounds ;  but  it  was  not  to  be  done.  At  the 
station  he  halted  irresolutely.  Then  of  a  sudden 
he  faced  towards  the  great  hospital  tent. 

**  I  want  something  to  steady  me  a  bit,"  he  said 


On  the  Firing  Line  219 

briefly  to  the  first  doctor  he  met  there.  "I  have 
two  or  three  scratches,  and  I  am  feeling  fagged. 
Give  me  something  to  help  me  get  a  grip  on  myself 
again,  for  I  can't  spend  time  to  be  ill." 

The  doctor  remonstrated;  but  Weldon's  answer 
was  peremptory. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  can't  stop.  Give  me  something  and 
let  me  go.  I  've  work  at  Lindley  that  must  be  done, 
and  a  convoy  leaves  in  an  hour." 

An  hour  later  he  was  trudging  over  the  veldt  in 
the  direction  of  Lindley.  Lindley  was  forty  miles 
away ;  the  roads  were  dusty,  and  the  sun  of  early 
February  struck  down  upon  him  with  the  heat  of  a 
belated  summer.  Nevertheless,  at  Lindley  was  his 
squadron,  and  with  his  squadron  would  be  work. 
Never  in  all  his  past  life  had  Weldon  known  this 
imperative  need  for  work.  In  it  now,  and  in  its 
accompanying  excitement  and  in  its  inevitable  risk, 
would  lie  his  ultimate  salvation.  For  him,  the  future 
held  but  one  plain  duty,  and  that  duty  was  to  forget. 

The  experienced  eye  of  the  doctor  had  told  him 
that  the  gaunt  trooper  was  a  sick  man  ;  it  had  also 
told  him  that  the  trooper's  determination  would  out- 
weigh his  sickness,  at  least  for  the  present  crisis. 
He  made  no  effort  to  penetrate  the  cause  of  that 
determination.  He  merely  yielded  to  it.  A  doctor 
less  wise  would  have  ordered  Weldon  into  bed. 
This  one  saw  further.  He  knew  that  a  delicately 
adjusted  machine  often  receives  its  worst  damage 


220  On  the  Firing  Line 

from  the  friction  needed  to  stop  the  whirring  wheels. 
Better  to  wait  and  let  them  run  down,  untouched. 

The  forty  miles  from  Kroonstad  to  Lindley  were 
reducing  themselves  from  a  geographical  fact  to  a 
matter  of  physical  and  mental  anguish.  There  had 
been  no  rain  for  days,  and  under  the  burning  sun, 
the  dusty  veldt  seemed  dancing  up  and  down  be- 
fore Weldon's  tired,  feverish  eyes.  Now  he  passed 
through  a  stretch  of  bare  and  burned-out  sand ;  now 
he  tramped  over  patches  of  tall  dry  grass ;  now  he 
plodded  wearily  around  a  heap  of  smooth  black 
stones.  Brick-red  ant-hills  higher  than  his  knees 
dotted  themselves  over  the  veldt,  their  shell-like 
surface  shielding  a  crowded  insect  colony  within. 
Ant-bear  holes  lurked  unseen  in  his  pathway,  trip- 
ping his  heedless  steps  ;  and  an  occasional  partridge 
went  whirring  upward,  making  him  start  aside  in 
causeless  terror  at  the  unwonted  sound.  And  over 
it  all  rested  the  glaring,  shimmering,  blinding  light, 
laden  with  myriad  particles  of  dazzling  red-brown 
dust.  Later  still,  the  red-brown  color  vanished,  and 
he  walked  for  weary  leagues  over  the  fire-blackened 
veldt  where  the  black  rocks  offered  no  contrast  to 
the  eye,  and  where  the  air  was  heavy  with  ashes 
caught  up  and  scattered  by  the  light  breeze  which 
heralded  the  coming  night.  And  it  was  all  so 
lonely,  so  hostile,  so  limitless.  But  no  more  lonely 
and  hostile  and  limitless  than  the  desolate  future 
which  stretched  away  and  away  before  his  gaze. 


On  the  Firing  Line  221 

As  yet  he  dared  not  trust  his  mind  to  rest  too 
much  upon  the  past.  The  future  demanded  his 
whole  attention.  It  was  a  far  cry  for  him  from  the 
present  up  to  his  limit  of  threescore  years  and  ten. 
Still,  he  would  not  funk  it  now.  That  was  the  part 
of  a  sneak.  Now,  as  always,  he  would  stand  by  his 
young  resolution  to  play  out  the  game,  to  abide  by 
the  rules  and  to  take  the  consequences.  Neverthe- 
less, it  would  be  weary  work  to  play  out  the  game 
to  its  end,  when  the  end  held  nothing  for  him  in  its 
keeping.  His  mind  trailed  off  upon  all  sorts  01 
vague  corollaries  scarcely  connected  with  the  fact. 
He  recalled  it  with  a  jerk. 

The  Captain  was  dead.  Ethel  had  loved  the 
Captain.  She  had  told  the  Captain  of  her  love. 
As  consequence,  she  could  not  love  himself,  Harvard 
Weldon.  But  he  loved  her.  He  had  loved  her  for 
thirteen  months  and  twenty-one  days.  Carefully  he 
reckoned  up  the  time ;  then,  to  make  sure,  he 
counted  it  off  upon  his  fingers.  Yes,  he  had  loved 
her  ever  since  that  first  lunch  on  the  steamer,  when 
she  had  snubbed  him  so  roundly.  He  did  not  know 
it  then.  Looking  backward,  he  knew  it  now.  And 
there  had  been  Cape  Town,  and  Johannesburg,  and 
Cape  Town  again.  He  stumbled  into  the  open 
mouth  of  an  ant-bea^s  hole  and  came  down  with  a 
crash,  full  upon  his  wounded  shoulder.  Strange 
that  his  step  should  be  so  uncertain  !  Strange  that 
he  should  feel  so  little  inclination  to  swear  !  As  he 


222  On  the  Firing  Line 

picked  himself  up,  he  wondered  vaguely  whether  his 
pipe  would  be  refreshing ;  but  his  wonder  stopped, 
impotent  to  lead  his  dangling  hand  in  the  direction 
of  his  pocket.  Then  his  mind  took  up  its  inter- 
rupted story,  its  record  of  brief,  categorical  facts. 

He  had  meant  to  go  home,  that  winter.  Instead, 
Ethel  had  fanned  the  flame  of  his  desire  to  go  back 
to  the  front.  He  had  left  her,  one  evening,  to  pass 
a  sleepless  night,  and,  the  next  morning,  to  take 
himself  out  to  enlist  for  another  six  months  of  ser- 
vice. The  six  months  were  nearly  ended.  Only 
three  weeks  remained.  And  then  ?  Nothing. 

The  second  night  found  him  still  far  from  Lindley. 
He  had  plodded  on  mechanically,  stumbling  often, 
but  halting  never,  while  his  mind  went  whirling  on 
and  on,  over  and  over  the  same  old  questions.  His 
lips  were  feverish,  and  his  eyes  burned  hotly,  so  it 
was  almost  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  he  greeted  the 
swift  chill  which  followed  the  dropping  of  the  sun. 
Over  his  head,  the  great  arch  of  the  sky  shaded  from 
east  to  west  through  every  tint  of  purple  and  blue 
and  turquoise  and  emerald-green,  down  to  the  golden 
band  of  the  afterglow.  Then  the  stars  began  to  dot 
the  purple,  their  tiny  points  of  light  serving  only  to 
emphasize  its  darkness,  until  the  full  moon  swept  up 
across  the  heavens,  throwing  its  mystic  silver  light 
over  all  the  land  and  adding  tenfold  to  the  empty 
loneliness  of  the  veldt.  Sleep  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. He  could  only  snuggle  more  closely  into  his 


On  the  Firing  Line  223 

blankets  and  wait  for  morning  with  what  grace  he 
could.  The  stopping  of  his  physical  action  only 
increased  the  swiftness  of  his  swirling  thoughts  which 
chased  each  other  round  and  round  in  circling  eddies 
about  one  fixed  point.  That  point  was  Ethel. 

Across  the  veldt  at  his  left  hand,  he  had  watched 
the  chain  of  blockhouses  which  lay  along  the  coun- 
try between  Kroonstad  and  Lindley.  Their  squat 
outlines  and  the  shining  blue  of  their  corrugated 
iron  roofs  had  caught  his  wandering  attention,  held 
it,  pinned  it  to  other  associations  with  those  same 
blockhouses  and,  of  a  sudden,  had  brought  him  to  a 
full  realization  that  griefs  did  not  come  singly.  He 
had  left  Johannesburg,  to  face  a  future  apart  from 
Ethel.  He  was  coming  back  to  Lindley,  to  face  a 
future  bereft  of  the  Captain. 

It  was  full  noon,  the  next  day,  when  the  camp 
came  into  view.  Leaving  the  convoy  to  follow  in 
his  wake,  he  headed  straight  for  the  rise  where  he 
had  so  often  sat  with  Carew  and  gossiped  of  all 
things  under  the  light  of  the  sun.  Then,  as  the 
round  tents  lay  under  his  eyes  like  rows  of  dots 
punched  into  relief  above  the  surface  of  the  plain, 
he  sank  down  on  the  coarse,  parched  grass  and  hid 
his  eyes  in  his  shaking  hands.  Yet  even  then  the 
pitiless  circle  of  tragic  thoughts  refused  to  stop  their 
ceaseless  round. 

He  roused  himself  at  a  touch  on  his  arm.  Kruger 
Bobs,  at  a  distance,  was  eying  him  with  a  look  of 


224  On  the  Firing  Line 

chastened  welcome  ;  but  Carew  stood  beside  him,  one 
thin,  sun-tanned  hand  on  Weldon's  shoulder. 

"It's  all  right,  old  man,"  he  was  saying.  "  Don't 
try  to  tell  me  anything  about  it.  Kruger  Bobs  saw 
you  coming,  and  we  rode  out  to  meet  you.  Come 
in  and  rest.  You  look  utterly  done  up." 

Half  way  back  to  the  camp,  Carew  spoke  again ; 
but  it  was  only  once. 

"  I  told  the  fellows  you  were  coming,  and  that 
you  would  be  tired.  They  will  keep  out  of  your 
way,  till  you  have  had  time  to  rest  up  a  bit.  Paddy 
is  waiting  to  look  out  for  you ;  but  you  need  n't 
worry.  He  knows  when  to  hold  his  tongue.  If  you 
need  anything,  or  if  you  care  to  talk,  send  him  out 
to  look  for  me.  Meanwhile,  you  need  some  rest." 


On  the  Firing  Line  225 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

"  "|     ">OR  God's  sake,  Weldon,  how  long  is  this 

•""^     going  to  last  ?  " 

-*-  Weldon  raised  his  eyes  from  the  seven- 

weeks-old  Times  in  his  hand,  and  looked  at  Carew 
in  surprise. 

"  What  last  ?  "  he  questioned  blankly. 

Carew  sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  to  pace  up 
and  down  with  impatient,  nervous  steps. 

"This.     Everything,11  he  said. 

Weldon's  smile,  though  it  went  no  deeper  than 
his  lips,  was  half  sarcastic,  wholly  sad. 

"  Specify,"  he  advised  languidly.  "  My  mind 
can't  grasp  your  generalities." 

Carew  took  a  few  more  turns.  Then  he  came 
back  to  Weldon's  side. 

"  It 's  this  way,  Harvey,"  he  said  slowly,  for  the 
moment  lapsing  into  the  name  by  which  he  had 
called  his  friend  in  their  childhood ;  "  since  you 
came  back  from  Johannesburg,  you  've  not  been  the 
same  man.  What  has  done  it  ?  " 

Weldon's  lips  shut  with  a  tightness  which  curled 
the  corners  downward.  Then,  as  he  looked  into  the 
questioning  eyes  and  anxious  face  of  his  companion, 
his  own  eyes  softened,  and  he  changed  his  mind  in 

regard  to  keeping  silence. 

15 


226  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  It  was  a  hard  journey,""  he  said  evasively,  yet 
with  a  kindly  accent  to  the  words.  "  Such  days  take 
it  out  of  a  man,  Carew.  I  shall  brace  up  in  time." 

Carew  shook  his  head. 

"That  is  just  what  you  must  not  do.  You  have 
braced  too  long,  as  it  is.  Your  wounds  were  noth- 
ing but  scratches.  They  healed  up  easily  enough, 
and  you  say,  yourself,  that  they  don't  trouble  you  ; 
but  you  look  —  " 

"Well?" 

"  As  if  things  had  ended  for  you,"  Carew  blurted 
out  desperately. 

Slowly,  wearily,  Weldon  lifted  his  eyes  to  his 
friend's  face. 

"  Well,  they  have,"  he  said,  with  an  intonation 
of  dreary  finality. 

"  Rot ! "  Carew  observed  profanely.  "  Look  here, 
Weldon,  you  Ve  no  business  to  funk  in  this  fashion. 
It 's  not  like  you,  either." 

The  word  stung  Weldon.  He  scrambled  to  his 
feet  and  stood  to  attention. 

"  Carew,  no  other  man  could  say  that  to  me," 
he  said  slowly. 

Carew  maintained  his  ground. 

"No  other  man  cares  for  you  as  I  do,  Harvey. 
We  Ve  been  like  brothers,  and  I  have  been  too 
proud  of  your  record  to  be  willing  to  sit  by,  quiet, 
and  see  you  spoil  the  last  round  of  the  game. 
There  is  too  much  at  stake." 


On  the  Firing  Line  227 

Weldon  raised  his  brows. 

"  What  is  at  stake  ?  "  he  asked  coldly. 

"  Your  whole  army  record.  Your  manhood. 
Your  — "  Carew  hesitated  ;  then  he  nerved  him- 
self to  speak  out  plainly ;  "  your  love  for  Miss 
Dent.1' 

Weldon  shut  his  teeth  and  drew  in  his  breath 
between  them,  while  the  dark  red  blood  rushed 
across  his  face,  and  then  died  away,  to  leave  in  its 
place  a  grayish  pallor.  He  put  out  his  hand,  as 
if  to  ward  off  something. 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't ! "  he  said  huskily. 

Carew  watched  him  for  an  instant.  Then  he 
stepped  forward  and  linked  his  arm  through  that 
of  Weldon. 

"  There  's  nothing  doing  now,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  Let 's  go  for  a  walk.  We  can  talk  better,  while 
we  're  moving,  you  know." 

"  But  what  is  the  use  of  talking  ? "  Weldon 
objected  listlessly. 

Carew  looked  into  the  heavy  eyes,  the  overcast 
face  of  his  friend.  Not  once  during  the  past  three 
weeks  since  Weldon's  return  from  Johannesburg  had 
the  cloud  lifted. 

"  You  must  talk,  Weldon,"  he  said  firmly.  *'  If 
you  don't  talk,  you  '11  go  mad.  I  've  watched  you, 
day  after  day,  hoping  you  would  speak  of  your  own 
free  will.  I  have  hated  to  urge  you.  It  seemed 
rather  beastly  to  drive  you  into  telling  me  things 


228  On  the  Firing  Line 

that  are  none  of  my  business.  But  they  are  my 
business,  in  a  sense.  There 's  nobody  in  all  South 
Africa  who  can  go  back  farther  with  you  into  the 
past.  That  alone  ought  to  count  for  something."" 
Handsome  still,  in  spite  of  his  dark  sunburn  and 
his  time-stained  khaki,  Carew^s  face  was  wonderfully 
attractive,  as  it  looked  into  that  of  his  friend. 
Weldon  felt  the  attraction,  even  while  he  was 
wondering  why  it  was  so  powerless  to  move  him. 
He  liked  Carew ;  since  the  death  of  the  Captain, 
no  other  man  was  linked  more  closely  with  his  life. 
Nevertheless,  Carew's  words  left  him  cold.  All 
things  did  leave  him  cold  of  late.  It  was  as  if,  in 
the  fierce  conflagration  of  that  one  hour  in  the 
Johannesburg  hospital,  the  fires  of  his  nature  had 
burned  themselves  out  beyond  the  possibility  of 
being  rekindled.  His  intellect  told  him  that  Carew 
was  in  the  right  of  it,  that  his  alternatives  were 
speech  or  madness ;  but  he  faced  the  alternatives 
with  an  absolute  indifference.  His  intellect  also 
told  him  that,  for  the  past  three  weeks,  Carew^s 
kindness  had  been  unremitting;  that  his  care  had 
served  as  a  buffer  between  himself  and  the  clumsy 
tactlessness  of  their  mates ;  that  his  sympathy  now 
was  leading  him  to  try  to  storm  the  barrier  of  his 
own  reserve ;  but  he  met  Carew's  advances  with 
an  icy  front  which  could  be  thawed  neither  from 
outside  nor  from  within.  It  was  not  his  will  to 
be  ungrateful ;  it  was  beyond  his  present  power 


On  the  Firing  Line  229 

to  show  the  gratitude  which  he  really  felt.  And 
Carew,  with  the  supreme  insight  which  marks  the 
friendship  of  men  at  times,  interpreted  Weldon's 
mood  aright  and  foreboreto  take  offence. 

Nevertheless,  watching  his  friend  closely,  Carew 
had  judged  the  case  to  be  serious.  He  had  felt  no 
surprise  at  the  state  of  collapse  in  which  Weldon 
had  struggled  back  into  camp.  The  battle,  the 
half-dressed  wounds,  the  nerve-racking  journey,  the 
watching  the  slow  approach  of  death  and  the  accept- 
ing the  fact  of  the  loss  of  a  valued  friend :  all  these 
were  enough  to  wreck  the  vitality  of  a  man.  With 
an  almost  womanish  tenderness,  Carew  had  brought 
his  friend  back  to  the  tent,  and  made  him  over  to 
the  care  of  Paddy  who  gave  up  all  things  else,  for 
the  sake  of  his  little  Canuck.  All  that  afternoon 
and  night,  Weldon  lay  passive,  inert,  while  Paddy 
bathed  him,  fed  him,  poured  cool,  soft  things  over 
his  wounds,  fed  him  again,  and  then  sat  down 
beside  him  with  his  own  stubby  hand  resting  against 
Weldon's  limp  fingers.  But,  the  next  morning, 
Weldon  rose,  buttoned  and  belted  himself  with  elab- 
orate care.  Then,  disregarding  the  implorings  of 
Carew  and  Paddy,  who  were  terrified  at  the  steady, 
unseeing  look  in  his  gray  eyes  and  at  the  tense  lines 
about  his  lips,  he  went  to  his  captain  and  demanded 
his  old  position  of  regimental  rough  rider. 

He  obtained  it.  In  fact,  it  was  given,  not  only 
freely,  but  with  joy.  In  all  the  regiment,  no  one 


230  On  the  Firing  Line 

else  had  been  able  to  subdue  such  wild  mounts  as 
Weldon.  In  former  days,  he  had  stopped  at  little. 
Now  he  stopped  at  nothing.  Horse-sickness,  the 
scourge  of  South  Africa,  was  in  the  land ;  and  the 
underfed,  overworked  mounts  yielded  to  it  with 
pitiful  ease.  And,  meanwhile,  the  need  for  horses 
was  greater  than  ever.  Drive  after  drive  through 
the  country  about  Kroonstad  was  bringing  in  the 
hostile  Boers;  but  it  was  also  bringing  down  the 
horses.  The  call  for  new  mounts  was  limitless ; 
limitless,  too,  the  hours  and  the  strength  and  the 
skill  which  Trooper  Weldon  put  forth  to  the  sup- 
plying that  call.  He  was  utterly  untiring ;  but  he 
was  utterly  reckless  as  well.  Checked  by  no  risk, 
sobered  by  no  danger,  he  rushed  into  risk  and 
danger  as  rushes  the  man  whose  one  wish  is  to 
escape  from  a  future  of  which  he  is  in  mortal, 
agonizing  dread. 

Carew  said  little;  he  watched  much,  and  he 
meditated  more.  At  first,  he  hoped  all  things 
from  the  healthy,  outdoor  life.  He  watched  Wei- 
don's  muscles  harden,  saw  his  appetite  return  and 
welcomed  with  happy  anticipations  all  the  signs  of 
his  returning  rugged  strength.  Then,  as  the  time 
passed  by,  his  anxiety  came  back  upon  him  in  full 
measure.  Long  days  in  the  saddle  were  followed 
by  sleepless  nights;  the  shadow  never  came  out  of 
Weldon's  eyes,  the  alertness  never  came  back  into 
his  step.  Lean,  gaunt  as  a  greyhound,  he  went 


On  the  Firing  Line  231 

about  his  work  with  a  silent,  dogged  endurance 
which  took  no  note  of  the  other  life  about  him. 
For  Trooper  Weldon,  his  profession  had  dropped 
to  a  dull,  plodding  routine  of  danger  lapping  close 
upon  the  heels  of  danger.  And  still  he  spoke  no 
word  of  the  sorrow  which  had  brought  him  to 
this  end. 

And  Carew,  meanwhile,  could  not  fail  to  note  the 
increasing  anxiety  with  which  Alice  Mellen  wrote 
of  her  cousin.  From  Alice's  letters,  it  appeared 
that  Ethel,  totally  unnerved  by  the  death  of  Cap- 
tain Frazer,  had  begged  so  piteously  to  be  released 
from  her  hospital  work  that  she  had  finally  been 
sent  home  to  Cape  Town.  She  had  seemed  to  be 
far  from  well,  when  she  had  left  Johannesburg  ; 
nevertheless,  she  had  no  sooner  reached  home  than 
she  had  plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  whirlpool  of 
social  life  where  she  was  said  to  be  the  gayest  of 
the  gay. 

Cape  Town,  that  fall,  was  facing  the  end  of  the 
war  and  the  consequent  departure  of  the  swarm  of 
young  Englishmen  who  had  made  their  headquarters 
there  during  the  past  two  years.  Accordingly,  it 
resolved  to  make  the  most  of  the  short  time  remain- 
ing to  it ;  and  the  early  weeks  of  the  year  saw  the 
little  city  neglecting  all  other  things  for  the  sake 
of  making  merry  with  her  fast- vanishing  heroes. 
And,  in  all  the  round  of  merry-making,  Ethel  Dent 
was  in  evidence,  bright  and  flashing  as  the  diamonds 


232  On  the  Firing  Line 

that  blazed  on  her  shoulder,  and  as  soft.  Her  wit 
was  ceaseless,  her  energy  untiring.  Always  the 
middle  of  a  group,  she  yet  always  held  herself  within 
range  of  her  father's  protection.  He  watched  her 
proudly;  yet  his  pride  was  sometimes  mingled  with 
alarm,  as  he  saw  the  waxy  whiteness  of  her  ears  and 
the  dark  shadows  which  lay  beneath  her  eyes.  It 
was  plain  to  him  that  all  was  not  well  with  the 
girl ;  yet  he  was  wholly  at  a  loss  as  to  the  cause  of 
the  trouble. 

Strange  to  say,  he  never  once  thought  of  Weldon  ; 
neither  did  his  mind  linger  long  upon  the  Captain. 
True,  Ethel  and  Captain  Frazer  had  been  good 
friends;  but  so  had  Ethel  been  good  friends  with 
many  another  man.  The  secret  of  that  last  hour 
of  the  Captain's  life  was  buried  in  two  hearts. 
Weldon  could  not  speak  of  it ;  Ethel  would  not. 
And  so,  in  the  eyes  of  her  friends,  Ethel's  experience 
had  been  sorrowful,  but  scarcely  touched  with  trag- 
edy. The  heroic  passing  of  a  casual  friend  is  no 
cause  for  a  lasting  change  in  the  nature  of  a 
happy-tempered  girl. 

However,  Alice  had  noted  the  change  and,  quite 
unable  to  account  for  it,  she  had  commented  upon 
it  to  Carew.  Her  letter,  coming  that  same  mom- 
ing,  had  quickened  his  slow-forming  resolution  to 
speak.  Taken  quite  by  itself,  her  account  of  Ethel 
would  have  made  scant  impression  upon  him.  Taken 
in  connection  with  what  he  had  seen  of  Weldon,  it 


On  the  Firing  Line  233 

forced  him  to  draw  certain  conclusions  which,  though 
wrong  in  detail,  were  comparatively  accurate  in  their 
main  outlines. 

He  and  Weldon  came  back  from  their  walk, 
wrapped  in  the  silence  of  perfect  understanding. 
Carew  had  asked  few  questions ;  Weldon  had  made 
even  fewer  replies,  and  those  replies  had  been  brief. 
Ethel's  name  had  scarcely  been  mentioned  between 
them.  Their  talk  had  mainly  concerned  itself  with 
Captain  Frazer,  his  life,  his  passing,  the  void  he  had 
left  behind  him.  Only  one  sentence  had  related  to 
the  scene  in  the  hospital ;  but  its  brief,  tragic  sum- 
ming up  of  the  situation  had  been  sufficient.  Carew 
had  made  no  answer,  save  to  walk  on  for  a  few  steps 
in  silence,  with  his  hand  resting  on  the  shoulder  of 
his  friend. 

That  night,  he  wrote  to  Alice.  The  letter  was 
long  and  full  of  detail.  It  told  what  he  knew,  what 
he  had  inferred  and  what  he  feared.  It  begged  her, 
in  the  name  of  their  own  sacred  happiness,  to  help 
him  win  the  same  happiness  for  these  two  who, 
longing  to  come  together,  were  straying  always 
farther  apart ;  and  it  ended  with  the  words  with 
which  he  had  begun  his  talk  with  Weldon,  that 
noon,  — 

"  For  God's  sake,  how  long  is  this  going  to  last  ?  " 


284  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

PADDY  waved  his  thumb  disrespectfully 
towards  the  rear  of  the  column. 
"  And  what  can  you  expect  of  a  man  that 
goes  to  the  ware  in  a  fancy  petticoat,  let  alone  a 
khaki  apron  to  cover  up  the  front  of  it?""  he  de- 
manded. "  And  look  at  the  bare  knees  of  'em,  for 
all  the  world  like  knots  in  the  branches  of  an  oak- 
tree  !  They  may  be  trained  to  believe  it 's  comfort- 
able to  walk  round  in  public  with  their  kneepans  in 
plain  sight ;  but  no  man  can  ever  make  me  think 
it's  either  beautiful  to  the  eye,  or  respectful  in 
the  presence  of  one's  betters.1" 

"  But  their  officers  wear  the  same  uniform,  Paddy," 
Weldon  objected.  "  Who  are  their  betters  ?  w 

"  Myself,  little  Canuck,  and  yourself,  too,"  Paddy 
answered  calmly.  "The  maple  and  the  shamrock, 
severally  and  together,  can  knock  the  spots  out  of 
all  the  thistles  that's  growing."" 

"  Until  it  comes  to  a  fight,"  Carew  suggested,  from 
Paddy's  other  side.  "The  Highlanders  have  made 
their  record,  this  time." 

But  Paddy  shook  his  head. 

"  Wait  then  till  the  end  of  the  chapter,"  he  pre- 
dicted. "My  turn  hasn't  come  yet.  Belike  I'll 
be  the  hero  of  them  all.  I  was  minding  my  pots 


On  the  Firing  Line  235 

and  my  kettles,  while  the  Black  Watch  was  slinging 
lead  up  on  the  road  into  Kimberley.  But,  faith,  if 
I  was  one  of  them,  with  the  choice  before  me  be- 
tween a  glorious  death  and  the  having  to  live  in  the 
sound  of  the  bagpipes,  I  'd  mount  a  Red  Cross  and 
take  a  white  flag  in  my  hand  and  sally  forth  to  be 
seen  and  shot  by  the  Boers." 

"  You  don't  like  the  bagpipes,  Paddy  ?  " 

Paddy's  reply  was  sententious. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  a  pig  soliloquizing  to  himself, 
just  as  he  crossed  the  tracks  between  the  wheels  of 
an  express  train  ?  Well  then ! " 

"  Meanwhile,"  Carew  observed  thoughtfully  ;  "  I 
wonder  why  we  are  out  on  this  trek." 

"  To  escort  the  little  Canuck  with  his  mounts,  and 
to  study  the  surface  of  the  land,  to  be  sure." 

Carew's  eye  swept  the  barren,  desolate  expanse 
about  them. 

"  It  is  a  bit  monotonous,  though." 

"  It 's  monotony  that 's  healthy.  You  can't  make 
a  whole  dinner  off  from  red  pepper,  and  you  can't 
make  a  whole  campaign  off  from  smokeless  powder. 
In  either  case,  you  get  too  much  heated  up,  for  the 
show  it  all  makes.  Strike  hard  and  eat  hot  at 
long  intervals  and  with  exceeding  unction ;  and, 
meanwhile,  pause  and  let  it  soak  in.  It 's  not  the 
hottest  jfire  that  gives  off  the  most  ^blazes.  And 
where  is  that  nigger  of  a  Kruger  Bobs  ?  " 

"  In  among  the  wagons  with  The  Nig." 


286  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Just  for  all  the  world  like  the  deuce  of  spades  ! 
The  Black  Watch  would  better  adopt  the  two  of  'em 
for  their  colors.  The  Nig  is  a  pretty  bit  of  property  ; 
but  this  is  the  brute  for  me."  And  Paddy  bent 
over  in  the  saddle  to  stroke  the  neck  of  Piggie  who 
snapped  back  at  him  testily. 

However,  in  all  truth,  the  little  gray  broncho 
deserved  all  of  Paddy's  praise.  Scarred  from 
muzzle  to  pastern  by  errant  bullets,  limping  slightly 
on  one  fore  leg,  she  still  had  borne  her  master 
bravely  over  weary  miles  of  veldt,  into  many  a 
skirmish  and  through  the  kicking,  squealing  throngs 
of  her  kindred  which  crowded  the  Lindley  kraal. 
Long  since,  Weldon  had  discovered  that  the 
thoroughbred  Nig  was  an  ornament ;  but  that 
Piggie  was  a  necessity.  Again  and  yet  again,  her 
flying  feet  and  gritty  temper  had  brought  him,  un- 
scathed, through  perilous  plights.  She  read  his 
mind  as  by  instinct ;  left  unguided,  she  guided  her- 
self with  exceeding  discretion  ;  and,  upon  more  than 
one  occasion,  she  had  endured  the  nervous  strain  of 
feeling  a  human  body  dangling  limply  above  the 
saddle  bow,  held  in  place  by  main  strength  of  her 
master  who,  crouching  forward  beneath  the  heavy 
fire,  could  only  indicate  the  way  of  safety  by  the 
pressure  of  this  heel  and  then  that  against  her  heav- 
ing flanks.  Surely,  if  ever  honors  could  be  given 
to  a  faithful,  plucky  little  broncho,  Piggie  should 
have  been  gazetted  for  the  Distinguished  Service 


On  the  Firing  Line  287 

Order.     Not  to  the  men  alone  is  due  all  the  honor 
of  victory. 

But  now  Piggie,  fresh  from  a  prolonged  interval 
of  resting  in  the  care  of  Kruger  Bobs,  felt  that  she 
was  out  on  an  excursion  of  pure  pleasure.  Behind 
her  trailed  a  long  column  of  men  and  mounts  and 
wagons  ;  around  her  was  a  knot  of  horses  whom  she 
knew  well ;  and  before  her  stretched  away  the  dry 
and  level  veldt,  broken  at  the  sky-line  by  a  range  of 
hills  that  rose  sharply  in  a  jagged  line  which  cul- 
minated in  one  peak  lifted  far  above  all  the  others. 

In  the  very  front  of  the  column  rode  a  score  or 
more  of  the  South  African  Light  Horse,  with 
Weldon,  for  the  moment,  in  command.  The  man 
was  showing,  just  then,  something  of  the  temper  of 
his  mount.  It  would  have  been  good  to  leave 
behind  him  the  slow-moving  column  and  go  dashing 
away  alone,  far  across  the  level  plain.  A  spirit  of 
restlessness  was  upon  him  ;  Paddy's  utterances  grew 
vague  in  his  ears,  and  he  cast  longing  glances  towards 
the  range  of  hills  to  the  southward,  as  if  eager  to 
explore  them  and  find  what  secrets,  if  any,  lay  within 
their  keeping.  Then  he  reined  in  his  broncho  and 
forced  his  mind  back  to  Paddy's  conversation,  still 
upon  the  deeds  of  the  kilted  heroes  of  the  Black 
Watch. 

"And  they  do  say,"  he  was  observing;  "that 
Wauchope  was  light  in  his  mind  — fey,  them  piping, 
petticoated  Scotchmen  calls  it  —  the  night  before 


238  On  the  Firing  Line 

his  death.  Now  that 's  something  that  's  beyond  my 
thinking.  No  dead  man  ever  knows  he 's  going  to 
die.  Witness  the  last  words  of  most  of  'em  !  They 
make  up  their  death-bed  speeches,  and  then  they 
turn  thrifty  and  save  up  the  speeches  till  next  time. 
Little  Canuck  dear,  what  would  you  say,  if  you  was 
hit?" 

Weldon  laughed  shortly. 

"I  should  probably  say  'Thank  God,'"  he 
answered. 

Paddy  crossed  himself. 

'*  And  might  heaven  forgive  you  then,  little  one ! " 
he  said  gravely.  "  The  Lord  and  the  Holy  Virgin 
may  send  the  bullets  to  kill  you,  unless  it 's  from  the 
Boers  who  is  guided  by  the  Father  of  Lies ;  but  it 's 
small  thanks  in  return  they  will  be  asking.  Take 
the  benefits  of  Providence  with  a  shout  of  thanks- 
giving ;  but  swallow  hard  and  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip, 
when  it  smacks  you  over  the  head  with  a  shillalegh." 
Then,  of  a  sudden,  he  bent  over  in  the  saddle  once 
more  and  rested  his  hand  on  Weldon's  fingers  which 
lay  on  the  broncho's  neck.  "  And,  if  I  mistake  not, 
little  one,  it  is  what  you  have  been  doing,  these  late 
days,  so  forgive  me  teaching  you  a  lesson  you  've 
already  learned  by  heart." 

Two  nights  before  this,  Carew's  letter  to  Alice 
had  ended  with  the  outcry,  — 

"  For  God's  sake,  how  long  is  this  going  to  last  ?  " 

And  now  the  end  was  almost  in  sight. 


On  the  Firing  Line  239 

Early  the  next  day,  there  had  come  a  call  for 
remounts  for  a  column  halted  on  the  veldt  near 
Reitz,  and  Weldon,  with  a  score  of  others  from  his 
squadron,  had  been  sent  out  with  the  mounts  to  join 
the  column  for  the  trek  to  the  southward.  As  a 
matter  of  course,  Weldon  had  asked  that  the  score 
might  include  Paddy  and  Carew  ;  and  now,  with 
them  at  his  side,  he  was  at  the  head  of  the  column 
which  trailed  away  far  towards  the  southward,  twelve 
hundred  poorly  mounted  men  riding  in  leisurely 
fashion  towards  Harrismith  and  the  chance  of  round- 
ing up  an  occasional  Boer. 

Dusk  of  the  second  day  had  brought  the  hills  on 
the  sky-line  close  to  their  eyes,  and  had  sharpened 
the  ragged  peaks  into  threatening  crests  of  bare, 
black  rock.  Already  the  hills  were  but  three  miles 
distant,  and  the  hour  for  halt  almost  at  hand,  when 
scouts  came  flying  back  to  the  column,  breathless 
with  haste  and  with  the  consciousness  of  tidings  to 
impart.  The  colonel  received  the  tidings  with  out- 
ward calm. 

"  A  laager  of  fifteen  hundred  Boers  ?  And  a  mile 
and  a  half  to  the  south  of  us  ?  We  must  attack/1 
His  eyes  swept  the  faces  of  his  men.  "  Trooper 
Weldon?'1 

At  the  word,  Weldon  rode  forward  and  saluted. 

"  That  highest  hill  is  the  key  to  the  position.  It 
is  the  one  we  must  hold.  Can  you  and  your  men 
ride  around  to  the  west  of  the  laager,  get  that  hill 


240  On  the  Firing  Line 

and  hold  it  at  all  costs  until  I  can  send  reinforce- 
ments to  you  ?  The  reinforcements  will  start  as  soon 
as  you  reach  the  top  of  the  hill.  Keep  out  of  sight, 
while  you  can.  Then  rush  it.  You  understand  ?  " 

Weldon  nodded;  then,  his  head  erect,  his  eyes 
flashing,  he  saluted  for  a  second  time  and,  with  his 
men  at  his  heels,  dashed  off  into  the  thickening 
dusk. 

Like  foothills  beside  a  mountain  range,  so  the 
veldt  before  him  was  already  broken  and  crumpled 
into  a  series  of  irregular  ridges,  opening  in  their 
midst  to  form  a  tiny  plain  where  the  Boer  laager  lay 
spread  out  before  them.  The  dusk  of  the  plain  was 
dotted  with  scattered  camp  fires ;  but,  beyond  the 
ridges,  it  lay  heavy,  and  in  that  heaviness  Weldon 
placed  his  trust.  For  two  thirds  of  his  whole  dis- 
tance, he  could  keep  below  a  ridge  to  the  westward 
of  the  laager.  The  final  third  lay  full  in  view  of 
the  enemy,  full  up  the  increasing  steepness  of  the 
mountain  side,  where,  horses  failing,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  creep  by  stealth  and  upon  the  hands 
and  knees.  And,  where  the  shelter  ended,  there  lay 
before  them  a  short  defile  between  walls  of  naked 
rock,  and  the  defile  was  narrow. 

Half  the  way  to  the  defile  was  already  accomplished 
when  Weldon  heard,  from  the  crest  of  the  ridge 
above  him,  the  double  crack  of  a  Mauser  rifle,  and 
then  the  sound  of  scurrying,  unshod  feet.  He  shut 
his  teeth,  and  his  chin  rose  a  bit  higher. 


On  the  Firing  Line  241 

"  A  picket !  And  now  the  brute  has  run  in  to 
tell  tales,""  he  said  shortly.  "  Quick,  men,  it 's  a  race 
between  us  now." 

Answering  to  the  touch  of  the  spur,  the  gray 
broncho  went  leaping  forward,  with  Paddy's  horse 
neck  and  neck  at  her  side.  From  beyond  the  ridge, 
the  trio  of  guns  could  be  heard,  barking  ceaselessly, 
while  their  shells  dropped  thick  into  the  laager, 
scarcely  eight  hundred  yards  away.  And  now  the 
defile,  short,  but  narrow,  was  close  at  hand. 

Ka-paw !     Ka-paw ! 

From  the  mouth  of  the  tiny  pass,  a  rain  of  bullets 
swept  down  upon  them.  A  horse  dropped,  shot 
through  the  knee  ;  another,  hit  in  the  neck,  bolted, 
threw  its  wounded  rider  and  then,  mad  with  pain, 
hurled  itself  straight  into  the  ranks  of  the  enemy. 
A  second  shot,  almost  at  arm's  length,  threw  it  to 
the  earth ;  but  not  until  it  had  done  its  work.  The 
half-broken  Boer  ponies,  fat  from  much  feeding  and 
totally  unaccustomed  to  this  species  of  missile, 
swerved  at  its  approach  and  destroyed  the  aim  of  the 
second  volley,  which  was  answered  by  a  fire  that  sent 
a  full  quarter  of  the  twoscore  Boers  sprawling  heavily 
groundward. 

A  scant  ten  minutes  sufficed  for  the  rest.  Five 
troopers  lay  helpless  on  the  dusty  soil.  Five  dead 
Boers  blocked  the  trail  at  the  entrance  of  the  narrow 
pass.  It  was  a  drawn  game ;  but  the  end  was  not 

yet.     From  beyond  the  ridge,  Weldon  could  hear 

16 


242  On  the  Firing  Line 

the  guns  still  pounding  ceaselessly.  He  knew  that, 
half  a  mile  in  the  rear,  his  colonel  was  watching  for 
him  to  come  to  the  crest  of  the  hill ;  that,  in  a 
sense,  the  whole  game  was  waiting  upon  his  moves. 
Whirling  himself  about,  he  gave  a  short,  sharp 
order.  Scarcely  a  moment  later,  he  was  astonished 
to  see  the  Boers  in  the  pass  giving  way  before  the 
mad  rush  of  his  paltry  fifteen  men.  The  narrow 
pass  was  his  own. 

Beyond  the  pass  were  more  ridges,  some  parallel 
with  his  course,  some  crossing  it.  Far  to  the  east- 
ward, he  could  see  a  moving  spot,  black  even  in  the 
increasing  darkness  of  the  night.  Leaving  Piggie  to 
pick  her  own  way  along  the  rocky  ridge,  he  rose  in 
his  stirrups,  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hands  and 
peered  anxiously  towards  the  spot.  At  last  his 
straining  eyes  could  make  out  eight  Boer  horsemen, 
riding  furiously  towards  the  peak  which  he  was  in 
honor  bound  to  hold.  And  their  course  was  the 
chord  of  the  arc  of  his  own  circle.  He  dropped 
back  to  the  saddle  where  he  bent  low,  yielding  his 
whole  body  to  the  flying  body  of  his  horse. 

The  crest  was  sharp.  To  the  east,  its  approach 
was  more  easy ;  but  on  the  west  it  offered  a  wall  of 
blank,  black  rock.  The  fat  Boer  ponies  were  still  at 
some  distance  from  the  eastern  slope,  when  Weldon 
flung  himself  from  his  panting  broncho.  Carew 
protested,  as  they  told]  off  by  fours  and  he  was  left, 
the  third  man,  with  Paddy's  mount,  the  gray 


On  the  Firing  Line  243 

broncho  and  a  huge  brown  Argentine  horse  on  his 
hands. 

"  Sony,  old  man  ! "  Weldon  said  briefly.  "  It 's 
luck,  and  dead  against  you.  Still,  it  may  save  Miss 
Mellen  a  bad  half-hour.  Look  out  for  Piggie.  She 
deserves  it.""  And,  turning,  he  led  the  way  up  the 
wall  of  rock,  with  thirteen  men,  breathless,  grim  and 
eager,  scrambling  at  his  heels. 

For  moments,  it  seemed  to  him  that  Fate  was 
idly  tossing  the  dice  to  and  fro,  before  allowing  her- 
self to  make  the  final,  decisive  cast.  From  the 
farther  side  of  the  hill,  he  heard  a  sudden  terrified 
snort  from  one  of  the  Boer  ponies,  then  the  thud  of 
feet,  as  they  charged  up  the  approaches  of  the  long 
slope.  From  behind  him,  there  arose  a  groan,  as 
one  of  the  men,  missing  his  foothold  in  the  deepen- 
ing dusk,  crashed  back  against  the  loose  rocks  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill.  Then  a  shot  and  a  whinnying 
moan  told  him  that  Carew  and  his  three  comrades 
had  edged  around  the  base  of  the  hill  into  range 
of  the  enemy  above  them.  The  man  might  be 
wounded,  too,  as  well  as  the  mount.  Seven  Boers, 
and  they  were  thirteen  in  all.  The  cast  was  all 
for  — 

A  dash  of  light !  A  rattle  of  firing !  Three  of 
his  men  dropped  backwards.  The  other  ten  looked 
up  to  face  a  second  flash  from  the  summit.  Only 
eight  heard  the  answering  echoes  which  came  roll- 
ing back  to  them  from  the  encircling  hills.  Then 


244  On  the  Firing  Line 

Paddy's  voice  came  in  his  ears,  low,  but  as  uncon- 
cerned as  ever. 

"  Remember  the  fellow  who  was  rejected  on  ac- 
count of  his  teeth,  little  Canuck  ?  '  Faith,'  he  said  ; 
*  it 's  shooting  the  damned  Boers  I  want  to  be,  not 
eating  them.'  But,  by  the  holy  Virgin  Mary,  in 
another  ten  minutes  we  '11  be  shaking  'em  between 
our  teeth." 

The  next  flash  but  one  showed  only  five  men  on 
the  steep  rocky  wall ;  but  those  five  men  were  close 
to  the  summit.  Once  on  the  top,  their  rifles  could 
come  into  play.  It  was  maddening  to  be  picked  off, 
like  stuffed  crows  resting  on  a  tree  branch  ;  madden- 
ing to  listen  to  the  low  sounds  from  beneath  which 
told  them  that  some  one  of  their  comrades  was  fac- 
ing the  end  of  his  fight.  Then,  just  as  they  reached 
the  summit,  one  of  their  five  dropped,  with  a  bullet 
shattering  the  bone  of  his  ankle. 

"  Go  on,  boys !  You  '11  get  there,"  he  said,  as  the 
next  in  line  dashed  past  him.  "  The  hill  is 
Weldon's.  Mind  you  hold  it  for  him.  The  devil 
is  in  him,  and  he's  bound  to  win." 

On  top  of  the  hill,  six  Boers  were  huddled  in  the 
scant  shelter  of  a  few  low,  scattered  rocks  tufted 
with  a  bunch  of  brush  whose  bleached  stalks  marked 
the  darkness  with  a  pale  line  of  range  for  their  fire. 
The  next  volley  went  astray.  It  was  answered  by 
the  crack  of  Paddy's  rifle.  Paddy's  chuckle  followed 
close  on  the  crack. 


On  the  Firing  Line  245 

"  I  rolled  him  over  like  a  sausage  in  the  hot  fat,"" 
he  commented,  as  he  took  a  second  aim.  "  Here 
goes  for  another,  and  may  his  bed  in  heaven  have  a 
valance  to  hide  his  sins  ! "  A  second  Boer  vanished 
behind  the  rocks. 

Four  Boers  in  shelter,  four  Britons  in  the  open; 
and,  on  the  plain  beneath,  twenty-seven  hundred 
men  were  waiting  to  see  the  outcome  of  the  game. 

The  tension  of  the  eight  men  increased.  It 
rendered  their  aim  unsteady.  Under  its  influence, 
seven  men  fell  to  wasting  their  ammunition.  The 
eighth  was  Paddy.  Firing  rarely,  his  rare  bullets 
told.  Now  a  finger  was  shattered,  now  an  ear  was 
grazed. 

"  I  'm  not  doing  much  killing ;  but,  faith,  I  'm 
warming  'em  up  a  bit,"  he  said,  as  he  halted  to  cool 
his  rifle.  "  It 's  keeping  the  ball  a-rolling,  and 
them  busy.  Else,  belike  they  'd  find  Satan  filling 
the  idle  hands  of  them  with  bad  deeds.  Little 
Canuck  dear,  this  is  hot  work  for  a  boy."" 

Weldon  nodded.  His  hat  had  been  lost  in  the 
scramble  up  the  hill,  his  putties  were  dragged  into 
heaps  of  khaki  about  his  knees,  the  shoulder  of  his 
coat  was  torn  by  a  passing  bullet  and  a  scarlet 
trickle  lined  his  cheek ;  but  his  face  was  alert  and 
eager,  his  lips  parted  in  a  half-smile  which  brought 
back  to  Paddy's  mind  a  dim  picture  of  the  boyish 
trooper  he  had  known  and  loved  at  Piquetberg  Road. 
Then  another  man  in  khaki  dropped  at  their  feet. 


246  On  the  Firing  Line 

The  lines  of  Weldon's  mouth  straightened. 

"No  go,"  he  said  briefly.  "We  must  charge. 
It's  our  only  chance." 

Paddy  took  one  last,  hasty  shot.  Then,  gripping 
his  rifle,  he  turned  to  Weldon. 

"  True,  little  Canuck,"  he  answered  loyally.  "  Go 
on,  and  be  sure  Paddy  will  follow  you  to  the  other 
edge  of  the  grave !  " 

He  spoke  truthfully.  The  reinforcements  came 
rushing  up  the  eastern  slope  of  the  hill,  to  find  their 
pathway  encumbered  with  bearded  men  in  frock- 
coats  and  bandoliers.  On  top  of  the  crest,  sur- 
rounded by  the  wounded  and  the  dying,  sat  a  single 
man  in  khaki,  the  light  of  victory  in  his  gleaming 
eyes,  and  Paddy's  lifeless  body  clasped  in  his  weary 
arms. 


On  the  Firing  Line  247 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

"^T  T"ES,"  Carew  said  meditatively;  "I  wish 
^f  there  had  been  glory  enough  to  go  around. 
-*•  As  long  as  there  wasn't,  though,  I  am 
glad  it  was  fated  to  fall  to  your  share." 

Weldon  hurled  a  little  black  stone  at  a  great 
black  rock. 

"  Not  so  much  glory,  after  all." 

Carew  raised  his  eyes  and  apostrophized  the  dark 
gray  clouds  rushing  across  the  paler  gray  arch  of 
the  sky. 

"  Just  listen  to  the  man  !  What  can  he  be  want- 
ing ?  '  Not  so  much  glory  ! '  And  he  recommended 
foraV.  C.!" 

Weldon  shook  his  head. 

"  What  does  it  profit  a  man,"  he  paraphrased ;  "  if 
he  gain  the  V.  C.  and  lose  one  of  his  best  friends  ? 
Besides,  I  did  n't  gain  it ;  it  was  fated.  Paddy  was 
as  brave  as  I,  and  so  were  half  a  dozen  more  of  them. 
It  was  only  chance  that  brought  me  through  the 
bullets." 

"  Poor  Paddy  ! "  Carew's  tone  was  full  of  thought- 
ful regret. 

"Not  poor  at  all.  He  had  the  end  we  all  are 
wishing  for.  He  died  with  his  boots  on,  and  fight- 


248  On  the  Firing  Line 

ing  pluckily  for  a  forlorn  hope.  We  can't  mourn 
a  man  that  we  envy."" 

Half  way  to  the  distant  sky-line,  the  horses  of  the 
squadron  were  grazing  peacefully  over  the  stubbly 
grass.  The  corporal  and  the  third  of  the  troopers 
appointed  to  guard  them  were  far  away  towards  the 
crest  of  a  ridge  to  the  westward,  and  Carew  and 
Weldon  were  alone.  Carew  sat  silent  for  a  moment, 
his  eyes  on  the  scattered  groups  of  horses.  Then 
he  turned  and  looked  directly  at  his  friend. 

"  Perhaps,""  he  assented.  "  I  was  sorry  to  be  out 
of  the  scrimmage.  It  took  all  my  grit  to  obey  you, 
old  man  ;  but  it  was  an  order.  Now  it  is  over  —  " 

"Well?"  Weldon  prompted  him. 

"  Now  it  is  over,  I  am  less  sorry  than  I  was.  The 
fact  is,  the  future  holds  a  good  deal  for  us." 

"  For  you,  perhaps.11 

"  For  you,  too.  The  whole  future  of  a  man  does  n't 
go  to  wreck  in  an  hour.  There  are  other  crises  later 
on,  and  some  of  them  are  bound  to  come  out  well. 
Save  yourself  for  those,  Weldon.  There  is  no 
especial  use  in  throwing  yourself  away." 

"I'm  not.  But,  when  the  order  comes,  I  must 
obey  it,"  Weldon  said  gloomily. 

"It  depends  something  on  the  order;  but  it 
depends  a  good  sight  more  on  the  way  you  obey  it. 
When  a  man  comes  into  collision  with  a  bulldog,  it 's 
generally  wise  to  grapple  with  him  back  of  his 
teeth ;  else,  you  may  lose  a  thumb  or  two.  It 's 


On  the  Firing  Line  249 

the  same  way  with  your  orders  here.  Because  you 
don't  funk,  there  is  no  reason  you  should  flirt  with 
an  early  death/' 

"  But  I  don't." 

"  What  about  now  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  you  ought  to  be  in  hospital." 

Weldon  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed,  but 
mirthlessly. 

"  Why,  then  ?  " 

Without  speaking,  Carew  took  out  his  pipe,  filled 
it  and  began  fumbling  in  his  pocket. 

"  Have  you  a  match  ?  "  he  asked. 

Weldon  nodded,  produced  the  match,  lighted  it 
and  held  it  to  the  extended  pipe.  Carew's  eyes, 
drooped  to  the  bowl,  watched  the  bit  of  flame. 

"Do  you  call  that  a  steady  hand?"  he  asked 
then.  "Man,  you're  ill,  I  tell  you.  Your  face  is 
hot  and  your  hands  are  cold,  and  your  nerves  are 
worn  to  shoestrings,  frayed  shoestrings  at  that.  If 
you  keep  on,  you  '11  be  down  flatter  than  you  like. 
You  ought  to  have  stopped  four  weeks  ago." 

Weldon  crossed  his  arms  at  the  nape  of  his  neck 
and  lay  back  at  his  ease  on  the  ground. 

"  Then  what  would  have  become  of  my  V.  C.  ? " 
he  queried,  with  languid  indifference. 

"  But  I  thought  you  claimed  not  to  care  for  your 
V.  C." 

"  I  don't.     My  friends  may,  however." 


250  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  As  a  legacy  ?  I  think  your  friends  may  possibly 
choose  you  to  the  V.  C." 

"  Foolish  of  them,"  Weldon  commented.     "  Still, 

'  If  we  could  choose  the  time,  and  choose  aright, 
'Twere  best  to  die,  our  honor  at  the  height.' 

I  learned  that  when  I  was  a  small  boy ;  but  I  've 
only  just  found  out  what  it  means.'" 

With  scoffing  lips,  but  eyes  full  of  unspoken  love, 
Carew  turned  on  his  friend. 

"Don't  dodder,  Weldon,"  he  counselled  him. 
"That's  canting  drivvle,  made  to  console  the  unsuc- 
cessful. No  man  knows  when  he  has  reached  his 
high-water  mark.  Yours  may  have  come  on  the  day 
you  licked  Stevie  Ballard  for  gilding  the  tailless  cat ; 
it  may  not  come  till  you  are  ninety." 

"  No.""  The  syllable  was  quiet,  deliberate.  Then 
Weldon  roused  himself  and  sat  up  to  speak  with 
sudden  energy.  "Promise  me  this,  Carew,  that 
while  the  matter  is  hanging  fire,  you  won't  mention 
this  V.  C.  business  to  any  one." 

Carew  stared  at  him  in  unmixed  surprise. 

"  What  "s  the  matter  now  ?  "  he  asked  blankly. 

"  Nothing,  only  that  I  want  you  to  promise." 

"  Not  to  —  " 

"  Not  to  a  living  soul." 

"  Why  ?     What 's  the  use  ?  " 

"  No  use,  but  my  wish.  If  it  comes  off,  let  it  be 
as  a  joyous  surprise.  If  it  misses  fire,  as  it  quite 


On  the  Firing  Line  251 

well  may,  then  there  11  be  no  harm  done.  In  either 
case,  it  is  best  to  keep  still.  My  own  notion  is  that 
1 11  not  get  it.  As  a  rule,  one  does  n't  get  the  V.  C. 
for  shinning  up  the  side  of  a  hill,  no  matter  how 
steep  it  is." 

Carew  made  no  attempt  to  discuss  the  chances. 
Instead,  he  merely  asked,  — 

"  May  n't  I  tell  Miss  Mellen  ?  " 

Weldon  shook  his  head.  It  was  exactly  to  pre- 
vent the  inevitable  consequences  of  Alice  Mellen's 
knowing  the  story  that  he  was  seeking  to  extort  the 
promise  from  Carew.  To  protect  his  motive,  how- 
ever, he  took  a  sudden  resolution. 

"  I  shall  not  even  tell  my  mother,"  he  answered, 
with  slow  emphasis. 

Carew  raised  his  brows. 

"Then  I  suppose  that  ties  my  tongue.  I  am 
sorry.  What's  the  use  of  being  so  confoundedly 
modest,  Weldon?" 

"  Do  you  promise  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  must." 

"  On  your  honor  ?  " 

"  On  my  honor." 

Weldon  stretched  himself  out  at  full  length  once 
more. 

"  So  be  it.  Give  me  a  light.  You  took  my  last 
match,"  he  said  as  unconcernedly  as  if  they  had 
merely  been  talking  of  the  weather. 

Indeed,  the  weather  might  well   have   been   the 


252  On  the  Firing  Line 

subject  of  their  talk.  The  earth  was  baked  until  it 
cracked  beneath  the  parching  sun  and  wind.  There 
had  been  no  rain  for  weeks ;  but,  to-day,  the  raw 
wind  sent  the  lead-colored  clouds  flying  over  the  sky, 
and  the  lead-colored  clouds  were  heavy  with  rain. 
All  the  morning  and  till  mid-afternoon,  the  column 
had  been  camping  not  far  away,  while  their  weary, 
hungry  mounts  had  been  turned  out  on  the  veldt  to 
graze.  For  men  and  mounts,  the  halt  was  needed. 

The  fight  about  the  laager  had  been  no  easy  vic- 
tory. Twelve  hundred  half-starved  Britons  are  no 
match  for  fifteen  hundred  Boers  fat  with  easy  living. 
Weldon's  hold  on  the  crest  had  decided  the  game ; 
but  the  game  had  not  played  itself  out  without 
wounds  for  some  and  utter  weariness"  for  all.  War 
mad,  yet  half-dazed  in  all  other  respects,  Weldon 
had  watched  the  reinforcements  come  swarming  up 
the  hill  to  his  relief,  had  heard  their  cheers  mingling 
themselves  with  the  sound  of  his  name.  Then,  list- 
less, but  with  his  arm  still  about  Paddy's  shoulders, 
he  had  seen  the  fight  move  to  its  destined  finish. 
He  came  down  from  the  hilltop,  feeling  that  some- 
thing had  taken  yet  one  more  turn  in  the  ever- 
tightening  coil  of  his  brain.  For  one  instant,  as 
they  were  laying  Paddy  into  the  narrow  grave 
scooped  out  of  the  veldt,  the  coil  relaxed.  Then,  as 
the  lumps  of  earth  closed  over  his  plucky,  loyal  little 
comrade,  it  tightened  again  and  pressed  on  him  more 
closely  than  ever. 


On  the  Firing  Line  258 

And  that  was  a  week  ago  ;  and  the  week  between 
had  been  one  long  trek  in  search  of  errant  Boers. 
Weldon  still  rode  in  the  front  of  the  column.  He 
had  been  ordered  into  hospital ;  but,  bracing  himself, 
he  had  looked  the  doctor  steadily  between  the  eyes 
and  had  refused  to  obey.  The  hospital  was  not  for 
him  —  as  yet. 

"  By  Jove  ! "  Carew  was  remarking  deliberately. 
"  Look  at  the  horses ! " 

Noses  in  air,  tails  lashing  and  eyes  staring  wildly, 
the  frightened  groups  had  swept  together  and  were 
rushing  down  upon  them  in  one  mad  stampede. 
Straight  towards  the  two  troopers  they  came  dash- 
ing along,  swerved  slightly  and  went  sweeping  past 
them,  wrapped  in  a  thick  column  of  dust  which 
parted,  just  as  the  horde  rushed  by,  before  the  fierce 
impact  of  the  breaking  storm.  From  zenith  to 
horizon,  the  leaden  sky  was  marked  with  wavering 
lines  of  golden  fire ;  but  the  shock  of  the  thunder 
was  outborne  by  the  clash  of  falling  hail.  Half  a 
mile  away,  the  tents  were  riddled  by  the  egg-sized 
lumps  of  ice ;  and,  out  on  the  open  veldt,  Carew 
threw  himself  on  the  earth,  face  downward,  and 
buried  his  head  in  his  sheltering  arms.  But  Weldon 
staggered  to  his  feet.  In  the  thick  of  the  flying 
troop  of  horses,  he  had  seen  the  little  gray  broncho, 
and  now,  before  she  swept  on  out  of  hearing,  he 
turned  his  back  to  the  gale  and  gave  a  high,  shrill 
whistle. 


254  On  the  Firing  Line 

It  was  months,  now,  since  Piggie  had  learned  that 
call.  Again  and  again  she  had  come  trotting  up  to 
him,  to  rub  her  muzzle  against  his  neck  in  token 
that  she  had  heard  and  understood.  There  was 
scant  chance  that  the  call  would  be  carried  to  her 
by  the  boisterous  wind,  scanter  chance  still  that, 
hearing  it  now  in  that  mad  rout,  she  would  heed. 
Nevertheless,  Weldon  took  the  chance.  Obviously 
stampeded  by  the  enemy,  the  missing  horses  would 
leave  the  column  powerless  to  repel  the  attack  which 
was  imminent.  If  Piggie  could  be  recalled,  there 
was  still  a  chance  to  regain  the  other  mounts.  Yet, 
even  while  he  was  weighing  all  the  chances,  he 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  recalled  the  ineffectual  little 
whistle  that  had  gone  out  on  the  whistling  wind. 

The  chance  was  gone.  Like  Carew,  he  would  lie 
down  and  seek  what  shelter  he  could  get  from  the 
earth  and  from  his  own  clasping  arms. 

The  hail,  falling  thickly,  shut  down  about  the 
troop  of  horses  and  took  them  from  his  sight.  If 
his  eyes  could  have  followed  them,  he  would  have 
seen  one  little  gray  head  toss  itself  upward  from  the 
heart  of  the  throng,  one  sturdy  little  gray  back 
move  more  and  more  slowly,  turn  slightly,  then 
weave  its  patient  way  in  and  out  between  its  fright- 
ened companions  until,  free  from  the  press  of  the 
crowd,  it  stood  alone  on  the  hail-lashed  plain.  Ten 
minutes  later,  Weldon  felt  a  soft,  wet  muzzle  poking 
its  way  between  his  tight-locked  arms. 


On  the  Firing  Line  255 

The  rest  was  simple.  It  amounted  to  riding 
back  to  the  column  to  give  warning  of  the  enemy 
who  rode  close  in  the  rear,  to  summoning  Kruger 
Bobs  and  The  Nig,  and  then,  without  stopping  for  a 
saddle,  to  go  galloping  away  to  the  sky-line  to  round 
up  the  stampeded  herd.  The  first  dash  of  hail  over, 
the  rain  fell  fast  upon  them ;  but,  above  its  roar, 
they  could  hear  the  steady  firing  of  the  pom  pom 
behind  them  and  the  crackle  of  musketry  mingled 
with  the  heavier  fire. 

Four  o'clock  had  brought  the  stampede  and  the 
storm.  Seven  o'clock  brought  Weldon  and  Kruger 
Bobs,  drenched  to  the  skin,  back  into  a  demoralized 
camp.  Nine  o'clock  found  Weldon  still  in  the 
saddle,  his  teeth  chattering,  his  brown  cheeks  ablaze 
and  his  eyes  hot  with  fever,  while  he  waited  for  the 
pitching  of  his  tattered  tent.  Then,  even  before  its 
soggy,  torn  folds  were  stretched  and  pegged  into 
position,  he  turned  and  rode  off  in  search  of  a 
doctor. 

"Sorry,"  he  said  briefly;  "but  I  think  I've  a 
touch  of  fever.  Can  you  put  me  to  bed  some- 
where ?  " 

The  next  morning,  he  greeted  Kruger  Bobs  by 
the  name  of  a  girl  cousin  who  had  died,  ten  years 
before. 


256  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

FOR  two  weeks,  the  fever  held  Weldon  in  its 
grip.  For  two  weeks,  he  was  prostrate,  first 
with  the  halting  column,  then  at  the  base 
hospital  at  Kroonstad.  The  fever  was  never  very 
high,  nor  was  it  intermittent.  It  merely  hung 
about  him  and  ate  away  his  strength.  For  the 
time  being,  he  was  content  to  lie  quiet  and  stare  up 
at  the  electric  lights  scattered  through  the  tent  and 
wonder  about  Ethel.  Now  and  then  some  sight  in 
the  hospital  set  him  to  thinking  about  the  Captain, 
wondering  if  he  were  happy  in  his  new  life  of  rest 
and  peace,  he  who  had  so  often  been  in  the  thick  of 
the  fiercest  fight.  Or  he  thought  of  Paddy,  brave, 
merry  little  Irishman  who,  fighting  like  an  angry 
wolf,  had  died  with  a  joke  still  hanging  on  his  lips. 
Then  his  mind  went  back  again  to  Ethel. 

In  vain  they  urged  him  to  sleep  ;  in  vain  they 
gave  him  bromides.  The  body  was  at  rest ;  but  the 
wheels  of  the  brain  whirred  as  busily  as  ever,  and  as 
logically.  No  hint  of  delirium  mingled  with  his 
thought  processes.  It  might  have  saved  something 
if  there  had. 

Then,  one  day,  Weldon  sat  up  for  an  hour.  The 
next  day,  he  was  put  into  his  clothes  and,  three 
days  later,  supported  on  the  strong  arm  of  Kruger 


On  the  Firing  Line  257 

Bobs,  he  crawled  into  a  hospital  train  bound  for 
Cape  Town.  It  was  an  order,  and  he  obeyed. 
Nevertheless,  he  shrank  from  the  very  mention  of 
Cape  Town.  It  had  been  the  core  of  his  universe ; 
but  now  the  core  had  gone  bad.  But  his  time  of 
service  had  expired.  Red  tape  demanded  that  he 
receive  the  papers  for  his  discharge  from  the  Cape 
Town  citadel.  That  done,  he  would  take  the  first 
outgoing  steamer  for  London.  Afterwards,  he  would 
leave  his  life  in  the  hands  of  Fate.  He  took  no 
note  of  the  fact  that  Fate  might  step  into  the  game 
earlier  than  he  then  foresaw. 

For  full  seven  hundred  miles,  the  train  lumbered 
on  to  the  southward.  It  was  tedious,  exhausting ; 
yet  Weldon  found  a  certain  interest  in  the  jar  of  the 
rolling  wheels  to  which  he  fitted  the  measure  of  his 
whirring  thoughts.  As  long  as  the  rhythm  of  the 
wheels  lasted,  his  thoughts  slowed  down  to  meet  their 
time.  When  the  train  halted,  his  thoughts  dashed 
off  again ;  but  they  resumed  their  slower  course  as 
soon  as  the  wheels  began  once  more.  He  took  no 
note  of  the  country  about  him,  as  they  passed  from 
veldt  to  karroo,  from  karroo  to  the  coast  plateau, 
and  from  the  coast  plateau  down  across  the  Cape 
Flats,  sparsely  covered  with  pipe  grass  and  acacias. 
Then,  as  Table  Mountain  and  the  Devil's  Peak 
lifted  themselves  on  his  right  hand,  he  knew  that 
Cape  Town  was  near,  and  he  braced  himself  to  go 

through  what  was  before  him. 

17 


258  On  the  Firing  Line 

Kruger  Bobs  eyed  him  anxiously. 

"  Boss  sick,"  he  announced  for  the  dozenth  time, 
as  the  train  drew  in  at  the  Adderley  Street  station. 
"  Boss  berry  sick  mans.  Boss  go  hotel  soon." 

But  Weldon  shook  his  head.  Even  now,  rest  had 
scant  space  in  his  plans,  least  of  all,  rest  in  Cape 
Town. 

"I  can  do  it,"  he  asserted  resolutely.  "Steady 
me  till  I  get  started,  Kruger  Bobs.  Then  I  shall 
astonish  you  by  my  agility." 

"Boss  go  hotel,"  Kruger  Bobs  muttered  in  low- 
voiced  mutiny.  "Boss  too  sick  to  trek." 

"  No  fear.  Did  you  ever  know  me  to  give  out, 
when  there  was  something  still  to  be  done,  Kruger 
Bobs?" 

"  What  Boss  do  ?  " 

"  My  discharge.    My  banker.    My  passage  home." 

The  arm  of  Kruger  Bobs  tightened  about  the 
bony  figure  of  his  master,  but  the  pressure  of  his 
strong  arm  was  only  gentle  and  reassuring,  and  the 
great,  white-ringed  eyes  glittered  wet.  This  was 
not  the  boy  master  to  whom  Kruger  Bobs  had  sworn 
allegiance.  This  was  an  older  man,  and  weak  withal. 
But  the  weaker  grew  the  master,  the  stronger  grew 
the  loyal,  loving  allegiance  of  the  man. 

After  the  wide,  deserted  stretches  of  open  veldt, 
the  roar  of  Adderley  Street  seemed  to  Weldon  like 
the  maddening  tumult  of  Piccadilly.  The  noise 
stunned  him ;  the  hurrying  crowd  filled  him  with 


On  the  Firing  Line  259 

terror.  Even  inside  the  cab,  he  still  clung  to  the 
arm  of  the  faithful  Kruger  Bobs.  Still  clinging  to 
that  faithful  arm,  he  came  out  from  the  citadel,  no 
longer  Trooper  Weldon,  but  Mr.  Harvard  Weldon 
once  more,  honorably  discharged  from  the  South 
African  Light  Horse.  Kruger  Bobs  was  invisible 
behind  the  spreading  limits  of  his  smile ;  but 
Weldon  had  scarcely  heeded  the  words  which  had 
been  addressed  to  him.  All  at  once,  like  a  watch 
about  to  run  down,  the  wheels  of  his  brain  were 
moving  slowly  and  ever  more  slowly.  His  whole 
resolution  now  centered  in  keeping  them  in  motion 
long  enough  to  go  to  his  banker  and  to  the  office  of 
the  steamship  company.  Once  on  the  steamer  and 
sliding  out  across  Table  Bay,  he  could  leave  the  rest 
to  the  ship's  doctor  and  to  Fate. 

Even  in  the  multitude  of  strangers  who  had 
passed  through  Cape  Town,  in  those  latter  months, 
he  was  remembered  at  the  bank  and  greeted  with  a 
word  of  congratulation  on  his  record  in  the  field. 
At  the  word,  a  man  beside  him,  hearing,  turned  to 
look,  looked  again,  and  then  held  out  his  hand.  It 
was  the  father  of  Ethel  Dent. 

That  night,  the  Dents  dined  alone.  Over  the 
roast,  Mr.  Dent  looked  up  suddenly. 

"  Whom  do  you  think  I  saw,  to-day,  Ethel  ?  " 

"  Who  now  ? "  she  asked,  smiling.  "  You  can't 
expect  me  to  guess,  when  you  are  constantly  running 
up  against  the  most  impossible  people." 


260  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Not  this  time.  It  was  quite  possible ;  but  it 
gave  me  a  shock.  It  was  Mr.  Weldon." 

The  smile  died  from  her  lips.  Nevertheless,  she 
asked,  with  a  forced  lightness,  — 

"  What  shocked  you  ?  " 

"His  looks.  He  was  ghastly,  thin  to  a  shadow 
and  burning  up  with  fever.  I  was  in  the  bank,  and 
I  heard  some  one  speak  his  name ;  but  I  had  to  look 
at  him  for  a  second  time,  before  I  could  recognize 
him.  The  man  is  a  wreck.  He  looked  sixty  years 
old,  as  he  went  crawling  off,  on  the  arm  of  his 
Kaffir  boy.  I  'm  sorry.  I  always  liked  Weldon." 

A  bit  of  bread  lay  by  Ethel's  plate.  For  an  in- 
stant, her  finger  tips  vanished  inside  its  yielding 
surface.  Then  she  looked  up. 

"  Too  bad !  He  was  a  good  fellow,'"1  she  said 
quietly.  Then  she  lifted  her  hand  to  her  throat. 
"  Dear  me !  Have  I  lost  my  diamond  pin  ? "  she 
added  hastily.  "I  was  sure  I  put  it  on.  Please 
excuse  me,  while  I  see  if  I  left  it  in  my  room.""  And 
she  ran  swiftly  out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Dent  broke  the  pause. 

"  Where  was  Mr.  Weldon  going?'1 

'*  To  his  hotel.  I  came  out,  just  as  they  drove 
away,  and  I  heard  the  boy  give  the  order  to  the 
driver.1" 

"Which  hotel  was  it?" 

"I  —  Really,  I  don't  remember.  He  used  to  go 
to  the  Grand." 


On  the  Firing  Line  261 

"  He  seemed  ill  ?  " 

"  He  seemed  —  "  For  an  instant,  Mr.  Dent  held 
the  word  in  suspension.  Then  he  let  it  drop  with 
a  slow  quietness  which  added  tenfold  to  its  weight 
—  "dead." 

His  wife's  gentle  eyes  clouded. 

"  I  am  sorry.  I  liked  the  boy.  He  was  good 
to  me.11 

"  I  had  thought  Ethel  liked  him,  too,"  her  hus- 
band added  a  little  inconsequently. 

"  So  she  did  in  a  way.  But  there  have  been  so 
many  others."  The  mother  sighed  slightly.  In 
her  young  days,  there  had  been  but  one.  Now, 
remembering  that  one  and  watching  him  in  the 
present,  she  found  it  hard  to  comprehend  Ethel's 
free-handed  distribution  of  social  favors  among  so 
great  a  throng  of  admirers.  There  had  always  been 
many ;  now,  since  her  recent  return  from  Johannes- 
burg, the  many  had  become  a  multitude,  and  each 
of  the  multitude  could  show  proof  of  her  liking. 
But  Mrs.  Dent  recurred  to  the  fact  of  Weldon's 
illness. 

"  Poor  boy  !  Fancy  being  really  ill,  so  far  from 
home  and  in  a  hotel ! "  she  added  slowly. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  risks  of  a  soldier,1'  her  husband 
reminded  her. 

'*  Yes,  and  the  soldiers  fought  for  us.  Where 
would  your  mines  have  been  without  them  ? "  she 
suggested  in  return.  "  I  really  wish  you  would 


262  On  the  Firing  Line 

telephone  to  the  hotel  and  find  out  something  more 
definite  about  him." 

Her  husband  looked  covetously  at  the  entree,  just 
appearing  in  sight. 

«  Now  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  ignored  the  mockery  of  his  tone. 

"  Yes,  please,"  she  assented  quietly.  "  It  will 
only  take  you  a  minute." 

It  took  him  ten.  When  he  came  back  into  the 
room,  his  hat  was  in  his  hand. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  over  to  the  Grand  for  a  min- 
ute," he  explained.  "  I  ^don't  quite  like  what  I 
hear." 

"  What  did  you  hear  ?  " 

In  the  dim  upper  hallway,  a  girlish  figure  leaned 
far  over  the  railing  and  strained  her  ears  for  the  re- 
ply. Then,  noiselessly,  the  door  of  her  room  shut 
again  behind  her. 

"  They  tell  me,"  Mr.  Dent  was  saying ;  "  that 
Weldon  is  there,  unconscious  in  his  room.  The  boy 
brought  him  into  the  house  in  his  arms,  and  they 
have  sent  for  Dr.  Wright.  It  is  a  bad  case  of  en- 
teric, mixed  with  some  trouble  with  the  brain.  He 
appears  to  be  suffering  from  nervous  shock,  they  say, 
increased  by  a  long  strain  of  anxiety." 

Half  an  hour  later,  he  was  called  from  Weldon's 
room  to  speak  to  his  wife  at  the  telephone. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  her.  "  It  is  as  bad  as  I 
heard,  as  bad  as  it  can  be.  You  think  so  ?  Are 


On  the  Firing  Line  263 

you  strong  enough  ?  Sure  ?  Hold  the  wire,  then, 
till  I  ask  the  doctor."  The  interval  was  short ;  and 
he  went  on  again,  "The  doctor  says  he  can  be 
moved  now,  but  not  later.  It  may  be  a  matter  of 
weeks.  How  soon  can  you  be  ready?  Very  well. 
Will  you  be  sure  to  save  yourself  all  you  can  ?  In 
an  hour,  then.  And  the  doctor  will  have  a  nurse 
waiting  there  ?  And  can  you  put  the  boy  into 
some  corner  ?  He  would  be  frantic,  if  we  tried  to 
leave  him  behind.  Very  well.  Yes.""  And  the 
telephone  rang  off. 

It  was  midnight  before  the  Dent  household  was 
fully  reconstructed.  Upstairs  in  the  great  eastern 
front  room,  a  white-capped  nurse  was  bending  above 
the  unconscious  man  in  the  bed ;  downstairs  in  the 
kitchen,  the  tears  of  Kruger  Bobs  were  mingling  with 
the  cold  roast  beef  on  the  table  before  him.  The 
doctor  had  just  gone  away,  and  in  the  room  under- 
neath the  sickroom,  Mr.  Dent  and  his  wife  were 
quietly  laying  plans  to  meet  the  needs  of  the 
changed  routine  which  had  fallen  upon  their  home. 
He  looked  up,  as  Ethel  came  slowly  into  the  room. 

"  By  the  way,  Ethel,  I  forgot  to  ask  you  before  ; 
but  did  you  find  your  pin  ? " 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  Her  face  was 
pale  and  drawn  ;  but  her  eyes  were  shining  like  the 
gems  she  had  professed  to  miss. 

"  What  pin  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked  blankly. 


264  On  the  Firing  Line 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 


""W"~"^ONT  wait   any  longer,  Carew.      Really, 

1   it  's  not  worth  while." 

-*  —  ^      "  Too  late  for  us  to  part  company  now," 
Carew  answered  serenely. 

"  I  know.  You  Ve  stood  by  me  like  a  good  fel- 
low ;  but  it  will  be  some  time  yet  before  I  can  sail. 
And  you  know  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  get  away." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  Carew  advised  him. 
"  All  my  good  things  are  n't  at  one  end  of  the 
world." 

Weldon's  lips  curled  into  the  ghost  of  his  old 
smile. 

"Then  take  one  of  them  along  with  you,"  he 
suggested. 

Elbows  on  knees  and  chin  on  fists  joined  knuckle 
to  knuckle,  Carew  turned  and  smiled  blandly  down 
at  the  face  on  the  pillow. 

"  Weldon,  for  a  man  who  has  been  off  his  head 
for  a  month,  you  do  have  singularly  wise  ideas.  But 
do  you  suppose  she  'd  go  ?  " 

"Which?" 

"  Miss  Mellen,  of  course.  It  's  a  question  of  ages. 
Young  Mahomet  is  easier  to  move  than  the  ever- 
lasting hills." 

"  Meaning  your  mother  ?     She  would  thank  you." 


On  the  Firing  Line  265 

"  She  will  thank  me,  when  she  sees  Alice,"  Carew 
responded  hopefully.  "  But,  honor  bright,  do  you 
suppose  Miss  Mellen  would  go  back  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  thought  she  promised.11 

"  Yes,  but  now,11  Carew  persisted,  with  the  eager- 
ness of  a  boy.  "  Right  off,  next  month.11 

"  There 's  only  one  way  to  tell ;  ask  her,11  Weldon 
answered.  "  If  she  is  the  girl  I  think  she  is,  she  will 
say  yes.11 

"You  do  like  her;  don't  you,  Weldon?"  The 
eagerness  was  still  in  his  tone. 

"  Intensely,11  Weldon  replied  quietly.  "  I  have 
seen  few  women  I  have  liked  as  well.11 

"  What  larks  we  11  be  having,  this  time  next  year, 
talking  it  all  over  together,11  Carew  said,  in  a  sudden, 
thoughtful  burst  of  prophecy.  "By  the  time  we 
get  home,  we  shall  forget  the  blood  and  the  dog- 
biscuit,  and  only  remember  the  skittles  and  beer. 
If  only  —  " 

"What?11  Weldon  looked  up  at  him  without 
flinching. 

Carew  did  flinch,  however. 

"  Nothing,11  he  said  hastily.  "  One  is  never  quite 
content,  you  know.11 

Weldon  drew  a  deep,  slow  breath. 

"  No,11  he  echoed.     "  One  is  never  quite  content.11 

Carew  crossed  his  legs,  as  he  settled  back  in  his 
chair. 

"  Mayhap.     Some  of  us  ought  to  be,  though." 


266  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Yes.     You  Ye  a  lucky  fellow,  Carew." 

"So  are  you.  The  trouble  is,  one  never  knows 
when  he  is  well  off." 

"  But  we  all  know  when  we  are  n't,"  Weldon 
replied  succinctly. 

Carew's  glance  was  expressive,  as  it  roved  about 
the  luxurious  room,  with  the  bed  drawn  up  near  the 
window  which  looked  out,  between  the  branches  of 
an  ancient  oak  tree,  on  the  blue  waters  of  Table 
Bay  and  on  the  fringe  of  shipping  by  the  Docks  far 
to  the  eastward.  Faintly  from  the  room  below  came 
the  sound  of  a  piano  and  of  a  hushed  girlish  voice 
singing  softly  to  itself. 

"  It  all  depends  on  one's  point  of  view,"  Carew 
said,  after  an  interval.  "  I  am  living  in  a  seven-by- 
nine  room  in  a  hotel,  and  Miss  Mellen  is  seventy-two 
miles  and  three  quarters  away.  Weldon,  you  are  a 
lucky  dog,  if  you  did  but  know  it." 

Weldon  shut  his  teeth  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said  quietly, — 

"  Carew,  it  is  five  weeks  that  I  have  been  in 
this  house.  Mr.  Dent  and  dear  little  Mother  Dent 
have  been  angel-good  to  me.  Miss  Dent  —  "  He 
hesitated. 

"  Has  been  an  archangel  ? "  Carew  supplemented 
calmly. 

"  Has  never  once  come  into  my  sight." 

Deliberately,  forcefully,  the  next  words  dropped 
from  Carew's  tongue. 


On  the  Firing  Line  267 

"  The  —  devil  —  she  —  has  n't ! " 

"No." 

Then  Weldon  waited  for  Carew  to  speak  ;  but 
Carew  merely  sat  and  stared  at  his  friend  in  speech- 
less stupefaction. 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  "  he  blurted  out  at  last.  "  Then  you 
have  n't  made  it  up  ?" 

"There  was  nothing  to  make  up,"11  Weldon  said 
drearily. 

Again  Carew's  elbows  came  down  on  his  knees 
with  a  bump. 

"  There  was,  too ! "  he  contradicted,  with  an  ex- 
plosiveness  which  irresistibly  reminded  Weldon  of 
their  kindergarten  days. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think.     I  know." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  Weldon  asked  listlessly. 

"  Alice  Mellen  told  me,"  Carew  replied  conclusively. 

"  Told  you  what  ?  " 

"  That  Cooee  Dent  is  in  love  with  you." 

From  his  superior  knowledge,  Weldon  stared  dis- 
dainfully up  at  him. 

"Then  there  is  one  thing  that  Alice  Mellen 
doesn't  know." 

"  She  does,  then.  She  told  me  about  it,  when  you 
went  off  on  your  feed,  up  at  Lindley,"  Carew  ex- 
plained hurriedly.  "  I  was  worried  about  you,  and 
she  was  worried  about  Miss  Dent,  and  we  compared 
notes.  You  hadn't  said  a  word  of  any  kind;  we 


268  On  the  Firing  Line 

could  only  guess  at  things,  so  we  wrote  to  each 
other  about  it.  She  told  me  then  about  Miss  Dent's 
dashing  up  to  Johannesburg  after  Vlaakfontein." 

"  She  went  to  see  her  cousin." 

"  She  also  went  to  see  you." 

Carew's  emphatic  pause  was  broken  by  the  com- 
ing of  the  nurse,  who  bent  over  the  bed,  raising 
her  brows  inquiringly,  as  she  laid  two  fingers  on 
Weldon's  wrist.  Carew  took  the  obvious  hint. 

"  I  hope  I  Ve  not  stopped  too  long,""  he  said,  as 
he  rose.  "It  has  been  good  to  see  Mr.  Weldon. 
May  I  come  again  ? " 

The  nurse  was  a  true  woman.  Therefore  she 
smiled  back  into  his  happy,  handsome  face. 

"  I  think  you  may,11  she  answered.  "  Mr.  Wel- 
don is  tired  now,  but  you  evidently  have  done  him 
good.11 

Carew  meditated  aloud,  as  he  went  away  down 
the  walk. 

"Out  of  every  five  women,  three  are  cats,11  he 
observed  tranquilly  to  himself.  "  I  Ve  cornered  the 
fourth.  It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  Weldon  is 
cornered  by  the  fifth,  or  only  the  third.  Has  n?t 
been  to  see  him  !  Little  beast !  But  1 11  bet  any 
amount  of  gold  money  that  she  has  done  endless 
messing  for  him  on  the  sly.11 

Carew's  words  showed  that  it  is  usually  not  the 
man  in  love  with  a  woman  who  is  the  shrewdest 
judge  of  the  hidden  recesses  of  that  woman^  nature. 


On  the  Firing  Line  269 

The  fact  was,  Ethel  had  slaved  unceasingly,  but 
unseen,  for  the  patient  above  stairs.  See  him  she 
would  not.  Day  after  day,  she  invented  fresh  ex- 
cuses to  ward  off  her  mother's  suggestions  of  a  call 
on  the  invalid ;  but  also,  day  by  day,  she  invented 
fresh  delicacies  to  tempt  the  appetite  dulled  by 
months  of  army  biscuit  and  bully  beef.  And, 
meanwhile,  she  was  waiting. 

Rather  to  her  surprise,  no  message  came  down  to 
her  from  the  invalid's  room.  She  had  supposed  as 
a  matter  of  course  that  Weldon  would  intuitively 
recognize  the  source  of  the  dainties  which  reached 
him  anonymously.  Man-fashion,  however,  he  could 
see  no  reason  that  his  beef  tea  and  his  wine  jelly 
should  be  the  work  of  different  hands.  He  de- 
voured them  both,  and  reflected  thankfully  upon 
the  skill  of  the  Kaffir  cook.  Mr.  Dent  had  been 
scrupulously  literal  in  carrying  out  the  commands 
laid  upon  him  by  his  daughter.  He  had  left  in 
Weldon's  mind  no  doubt  whatsoever  about  the 
truth  of  his  statement  that  Mrs.  Dent  alone  had 
been  responsible  for  the  invalid's  present  quarters. 
Weldon  had  lavished  thanks  upon  Mrs.  Dent,  and 
she  had  received  them  without  demur,  as  her  own 
lawful  property.  Even  now,  he  was  at  a  loss 
whether  his  recovery  was  more  owing  to  Mrs.  Dent 
or  to  the  nurse.  Each  had  given  to  him  a  large 
share  of  her  vitality. 

From  a  distance,  he  could  follow  Ethel's  doings, 


270  On  the  Firing  Line 

could  assure  himself  that  his  presence  was  no  ap- 
parent check  upon  her  happiness.  Now  it  was  the 
muffled  whirr  of  the  bell,  followed  by  low  voices 
from  the  room  beneath.  Now  it  was  the  roll  of  the 
carriage,  bearing  her  away  to  dine  or  to  dance,  and 
leaving  Weldon  to  lie  and  count  the  minutes  until 
she  returned.  Now  it  was  her  light  footstep  on 
the  stairs,  or,  but  this  was  only  at  long  intervals, 
her  hushed  voice  in  the  hallway  outside  his  door. 
At  first,  he  used  to  lie  and  hold  his  breath,  while  he 
waited  for  her  to  open  the  door  of  his  room.  By 
degrees,  however,  he  ceased  to  expect  her.  And, 
as  the  expectation  died  away,  he  chafed  increasingly 
at  the  slowness  of  his  recovery.  Anything  to  get 
out  of  that  house !  She  treated  him  as  he  would 
have  scorned  to  treat  an  invalid  dog  who  had  taken 
refuge  in  his  stable. 

All  this  came  slowly.  For  two  endless  weeks, 
Weldon  lay  unconscious.  For  two  more  endless 
weeks,  he  raved  in  delirium.  Happily,  his  nurse 
was  a  discreet  woman.  She  discouraged  the  visits 
of  Mrs.  Dent  and  her  husband,  offered  the  excuse 
that  strange  faces  excited  the  invalid,  and  only 
admitted  them  during  his  brief  intervals  of  sleep. 
Meanwhile,  she  used  all  her  professional  principles 
to  keep  herself  from  trying  to  solve  the  problem 
before  her  eyes.  Upstairs  was  a  man  sick  unto 
death,  a  man  who  raved  ceaselessly  of  the  daughter 
of  the  house.  Downstairs,  the  daughter  of  the 


On  the  Firing  Line  271 

house  was  going  her  accustomed  way,  with  never 
a  question  in  regard  to  the  man  above.  What  had 
happened  ?  How,  if  anything  had  happened,  how 
did  he  chance  to  be  in  that  home,  with  Mrs.  Dent 
as  his  devoted  and  anxious  slave  ?  Resolutely,  she 
fell  to  studying  her  temperature  charts.  Her  spe- 
cialty was  fever,  not  heart  disease. 

A  week  after  the  tide  had  turned,  Carew  had 
been  allowed  to  spend  a  short  half-hour  with  the 
invalid.  The  next  day,  by  advice  of  the  nurse,  Mr. 
Dent  telephoned  to  him  to  come  again.  Something, 
whether  in  his  personality  or  in  his  talk,  had  been 
of  tonic  power  over  Weldon.  It  seemed  wise  to 
repeat  the  experiment. 

Carew  came  on  the  heels  of  his  own  voice  through 
the  telephone  ;  and  his  face  was  smiling  broadly,  as 
he  went  leaping  up  the  stairs.  After  all,  it  had  not 
been  in  vain,  his  quixotic  lingering  in  Cape  Town 
for  a  weary  month  after  receiving  his  discharge. 
Weldon  and  he  had  been  good  friends  through  thick 
and  thin ;  it  would  have  been  beastly  to  leave 
him.  And  now,  after  all  these  useless  weeks,  he 
could  at  least  do  something  to  lighten  the  conva- 
lescence. Moreover,  Carew's  pocket  held  three 
letters,  received  that  very  noon ;  one  of  grudging 
approval  from  his  son-sick  mother,  one  of  chaotic, 
but  heartfelt  thanks  from  Mrs.  Weldon,  and  the 
third  one  an  affirmative  answer  to  a  telegram  he  had 
sent  to  Alice  Mellen,  only  the  night  before.  He 


272  On  the  Firing  Line 

went  into  Weldon's  room,  looking,  as  he  felt,  the 
embodiment  of  happiness  and  health. 

He  hailed  Weldon  from  the  threshold.  Tidings 
like  his  could  wait  during  no  interchange  of  mere 
conventional  greetings.  Weldon  heard  him  to  the 
end,  congratulated  him,  demanded  the  repetition  of 
all  the  details.  Then,  when  Carew's  excitement  had 
quite  spent  itself,  Weldon  drew  a  letter  from  under- 
neath his  pillow. 

"  It  came,  this  morning,""  he  added  laconically. 

Carew  seized  the  letter  and  ran  his  eye  down  the 
page.  Then  his  face  lighted. 

"  Nune  dimittis ! "  he  said  piously.  "  It 's  sure  to 
be  yours  !  Have  you  told  Miss  Dent  ?  " 

"  I  've  not  seen  Miss  Dent."" 

Carew's  face  fell. 

"  Not  yet  ?  But  you  will.  And  then  you  will 
tell  her?"11 

WeldoiVs  lips  straightened  into  a  thin  line.  He 
shook  his  head. 

"  But  she  ought  to  know.11 

"Why?11 

"  It  is  her  right.11 

"  Why  ?  "  Weldon  asked  again. 

"  Because  —  it  is.  It  might  make  some  difference 
in  —  11 

Weldon  stopped  him  abruptly. 

"  It  could  make  no  difference,  Carew.  In  facing 
the  main  question,  such  things  as  that  don't  count. 


On  the  Firing  Line  273 

Even  if  they  did,  though,"  he  rose  on  his  elbow  and 
faced  his  friend  steadily  ;  "  even  if  they  did,  I  would 
never  consent  to  try  to  bribe  a  girl  into  loving  me, 
by  telling  her  I  had  won  the  V.  C.  It  will  be  time 
enough  for  Miss  Dent  to  hear  of  it,  when  it  is 
given." 

"  But  you  will  be  in  England  then,""  Carew  ob- 
jected practically. 

Weldon  lay  down  again  and  drew  the  sheet  up- 
ward till  its  shadow  lay  across  his  lips. 

"  What  matter  ? "  he  answered  slowly.  "  And, 
besides,  Miss  Dent  is  n't  the  girl  to  be  won  in  any 
such  way  as  that.  Hers  is  a  love  to  be  given,  not 
bought." 

Half  an  hour  later,  Carew  met  Ethel  on  the  stairs. 
As  he  halted  to  speak  to  her,  he  was  shocked  at  the 
look  in  her  face.  The  lips  were  smiling ;  but  the 
eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  hunted  animal. 

"  So  long  since  we  have  met ! "  he  said,  as  he  took 
her  hand.  "  And  so  much  has  happened." 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  hoping  to  congratulate  you," 
she  answered. 

"  It  was  a  stunning  letter  you  wrote  me,"  he  said 
boyishly.  "  I  suppose  we  are  cousins  now." 

Then  there  came  a  little  pause.  Before  either  of 
them  quite  realized  it,  the  pause  had  lengthened 
until  it  was  hard  to  break. 

"  I  have  been  up  to  see  the  invalid,"  he  blurted 
out  at  last. 

18 


274  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  How  is  he  ?  "  the  girl  inquired  courteously. 

"Better."  Then  a  sudden  note  of  resentment 
crept  into  Carew's  honest  voice.  "  He  is  counting 
the  days  now  before  he  can  be  moved.  He  says  your 
mother  has  been  wonderfully  good  to  him."" 

The  girl  stood  aside  to  let  Carew  pass  her  by. 

"  She  is  good  to  everybody ,"  she  assented  quietly. 
"  I  hope  Mr.  Weldon  won't  think  of  going  away 
until  he  can  be  moved  with  perfect  safety.  It  is 
really  no  trouble  to  have  him  here,  and  the  nurse  is 
very  capable.1' 

And  Carew  bowed  in  agreement.  Once  outside 
the  door,  however,  he  freed  his  mind,  tersely  and 
with  vigor. 

"  Damn  the  nurse  ! "  he  said  to  the  oak  tree,  as  he 
passed  it. 


On  the  Firing  Line  275 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-SIX 

"  There  's  a  true  Heart  in  the  West  World,  that  is  beating 

still  for  me, 

Ever  praying  in  the  tivilight  once  again  my  face  to  see. 
Oh,  the  World  is  good  and  gladsome,  with  its  Love  both 

East  and   West, 
But  there 's  ever  one  love  only  that  is  still  the  First  and  Best." 

THE  low  voice  died  away.  A  moment  later, 
Ethel  Dent  pushed  open  one  of  the  long 
windows  of  the  drawing-room  and  stepped 
out  on  the  veranda.  The  flower-boxes  were  filled 
with  limp  stalks,  chilled  by  the  frost  of  the  previous 
night ;  but  the  sun  lay  warm  over  the  wide,  white 
steps,  over  the  lawn  and  over  the  bay  beyond.  She 
stood  for  a  moment,  staring  thoughtfully  out  across 
the  bay ;  then  she  moved  on  to  the  western  end  of 
the  veranda,  looked  up  at  Table  Mountain  with  its 
cloth  of  cloud,  and  then  dropped  down  into  one  of 
the  chairs  which  still  remained  in  the  sunny  corner. 

That  corner  held  many  memories  for  her.  She 
had  sought  it  now  unconsciously;  yet,  once  there, 
she  lingered,  although  for  weeks  past  she  had  been 
seeking  to  banish  those  memories  from  her  life. 
Why  keep  them  ?  They  belonged  to  a  chapter 
that  was  dead  and  gone.  Better  to  seal  its  pages 
and  never  break  the  seal.  Better  never  to  reread 


276  On  the  Firing  Line 

what  had  been  written  there.  If  she  had  been  mis- 
taken in  giving  her  love  where  it  was  not  desired, 
not  only  should  the  world  never  be  aware  of  the 
fact;  but  she  herself  would  ignore  the  existence  of 
that  mistake.  She  had  loved  Weldon  with  all  the 
energy  of  her  headstrong,  girlish  nature.  She  had 
supposed  that  he  had  loved  her  in  return.  Instead 
of  that,  he  had  gone  away  and  left  her  without  a 
word,  just  when  her  need  for  him  was  the  greatest. 
No  man  in  his  senses  could  have  seen  the  agony  of 
that  last  hour  she  had  spent  with  Captain  Frazer, 
and  failed  to  understand  the  pitiful,  appealing  look 
she  had  cast  upon  him.  Unable  to  escape  the  agony, 
she  had  given  this  tacit  call  to  Weldon  to  share  it 
with  her,  to  understand,  and  to  forgive.  She  had 
been  sure  she  could  trust  him ;  but  it  was  evident 
that  she  had  trusted  him  in  vain.  In  the  hour  of 
her  supremest  need,  he  had  gone  away  and  left  her 
alone.  No  man  who  cared  for  her  could  have  for- 
saken her  in  such  a  crisis  as  that.  Her  lips  curved 
into  a  hard  little  smile,  as  she  sat  rocking  to  and  fro 
in  the  sunshine,  and.  going  back  over  a  past  which 
she  had  rarely  allowed  herself  to  reopen. 

And  afterwards?  Afterwards  Fate  had  been  all 
against  her.  It  had  been  easy  to  escape  from  her 
engagement  at  Johannesburg,  comparatively  easy  to 
shut  the  past  experience  into  the  inner  places  of  her 
mind,  to  close  her  lips  with  the  show  of  a  smile,  and 
to  plunge  into  a  whirl  of  social  life  which  should 


On  the  Firing  Line  277 

leave  her  no  time  for  quiet  thought.  So  long  as  she 
kept  her  secret  to  herself,  it  mattered  nothing  to  the 
girl  that  it  was  eating  pitilessly  at  her  vitality,  that 
it  was  ever  hard  and  harder  for  her  to  keep  up  her 
ceaseless  round  of  gayety. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  their  home  life  had  been 
invaded  by  the  man  who  was  never  absent  from  her 
thoughts.  In  a  sense,  she  was  glad  of  the  invasion. 
It  proved  to  her,  more  surely  than  any  words  could 
have  done,  that  she  had  kept  her  secret  well  and 
beyond  suspicion.  Had  her  mother  gained  any 
inkling  of  the  true  state  of  the  case,  Harvard 
Weldon  would  never  have  been  brought  away  from 
the  room  at  the  Grand.  For  so  much  surety,  Ethel 
Dent  could  rejoice  with  a  thankful  heart.  Never- 
theless, as  the  days  passed  by,  Weldon's  presence  in 
the  house  increased  the  strain  tenfold.  Night  after 
night,  Ethel  had  crept  noiselessly  from  her  room 
across  the  hallway  and  crouched  outside  his  door, 
listening  for  any  sounds  from  within  which  might 
tell  her  that  all  was  well  with  the  man  whom  she 
would  not  see.  Day  after  day,  she  forced  her  life  to 
run  along  in  its  usual  grooves,  going  out  of  the  house 
with  a  laugh  on  her  lips  and,  in  her  heart,  the  sicken- 
ing dread  of  the  tidings  which  might  greet  her  upon 
her  return.  Again  and  again,  as  she  passed  the  door 
left  open  during  the  nurse's  temporary  absence  from 
the  room,  she  put  forth  all  her  strength  to  keep  her- 
self from  stealing  in,  to  look  just  once  on  the  un- 


278  On  the  Firing  Line 

conscious  face  of  the  man  who  had  made  her  whole 
life.  But  she  held  herself  in  check,  and  never  once 
yielded  to  the  temptation.  Well  she  might  hold 
herself  in  check.  She  realized  only  too  keenly  that, 
once  face  to  face  with  Weldon,  she  would  have  to  do 
over  again  all  the  weary  work  of  those  weeks  of 
self-repression. 

Then  the  stupor  had  given  place  to  delirium ; 
and,  even  in  her  room  and  behind  her  closed  door, 
she  could  hear  the  low,  muttering  voice.  After 
that,  she  crouched  no  more  outside  his  room.  It 
would  have  been  impossible  for  her  to  say  just  what 
it  was  that  she  dreaded  to  hear.  Nevertheless,  she 
closed  her  ears  as  resolutely  as  she  closed  her  door ; 
but,  when  she  met  the  nurse  on  the  stairs,  she  hur- 
ried onward  with  her  face  turned  away  and  her 
cheeks  ablaze. 

And  then  in  its  turn  the  delirium  had  ended. 
From  that  time  forward,  Ethel  went  out  more  con- 
stantly than  ever.  When  she  was  in  the  house,  she 
started  and  grew  red  or  pale  at  every  unexpected 
step.  Now,  at  any  hour,  there  might  come  a  sum- 
mons for  her  to  go  to  the  invalid's  room.  She  went 
over  in  detail  every  possible  reply  she  could  make  to 
every  possible  word  which  Weldon  might  say.  She 
held  herself  ready  for  any  emergency.  But  the  days 
dragged  away,  and  no  emergency  had  come. 

And  then,  as  it  had  chanced,  she  had  been  away 
from  home,  when  Weldon  had  finally  left  the  house.. 


On  the  Firing  Line  279 

It  had  been  the  fulfilment  of  an  old  promise  which 
had  taken  her  to  spend  two  days  with  a  friend  in 
Newlands.  She  had  had  no  notion  that  the  time  for 
Weldon's  going  away  was  at  hand.  Neither,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  Weldon  any  idea  that  Ethel  was 
absent  from  home.  He  had  merely  taken  advantage 
of  the  first  day  when  the  doctor  had  ceased  to  op- 
pose his  removal.  It  had  been  to  him  a  cruel  dis- 
appointment that  Mrs.  Dent  had  stood  alone  on  the 
steps  to  watch  his  departure. 

That  was  three  weeks  before.  Ethel  had  sup- 
posed that  Weldon  would  sail  for  home  at  once. 
He  had  supposed  so,  too,  until  all  at  once  he  had 
found  it  impossible  to  turn  his  back  upon  Cape 
Town  and  all  it  held.  Deep  down  in  his  heart  was 
the  memory  of  Carew's  words,  assuring  him  of  the 
reason  of  Ethel's  sudden  journey  to  Johannesburg 
after  the  fight  at  Vlaakfontein.  The  episode  was 
now  far  away  in  the  past.  It  might  chance,  how- 
ever, that  something  of  the  old  mood  might  linger 
in  her  mind.  Carew  had  felt  sure  of  her  love  for 
him.  Perhaps  she  had  loved  him  once,  before  the 
Captain  had  won  the  first  place  in  her  heart.  Per- 
haps—  He  had  grown  dizzy  and  had  grasped  the 
edge  of  the  pillow  to  steady  himself,  the  first  time 
the  idea  had  dawned  upon  him  —  Perhaps,  now  that 
the  Captain  had  gone  beyond  the  reach  of  human 
love,  he  might  win  her  to  care  for  himself  once  more. 
The  chance  appeared  to  him  to  be  wellnigh  impos- 


280  On  the  Firing  Line 

sible ;  yet,  while  it  lingered  in  his  mind,  he  could 
not  force  himself  to  go  away  from  Cape  Town. 

The  worst  of  his  convalescence  was  ended,  before 
he  was  allowed  to  leave  the  Dents'  home.  He 
strained  every  nerve  to  hasten  his  full  recovery.  The 
path  of  Ethel  Dent  was  not  parallel  to  the  course  of 
any  semi-invalid.  If  he  were  to  meet  her  at  all,  it 
must  be  as  a  man  in  full  health.  By  degrees,  the 
color  came  back  to  his  face,  his  lean  figure  lost 
something  of  its  lankness,  his  tread  grew  firmer  and 
more  alert.  But  the  old  shadow  still  lingered  in 
his  eyes;  the  strained  lines  about  his  lips  did  not 
relax.  Weldon^s  mental  healing  kept  no  pace  with 
his  physical  one. 

By  degrees,  too,  his  table  littered  itself  with  cards 
of  invitation.  As  yet,  he  felt  himself  too  weak  for 
any  but  the  most  informal  functions ;  and  Carew, 
always  at  his  elbow,  assured  him  from  his  own  ex- 
perience that  informality,  just  then,  was  an  unknown 
word  in  the  social  vocabulary  of  Cape  Town.  Carew, 
bidden  on  all  sides,  was  dividing  his  time  between 
his  convalescent  friend  and  the  gayeties  of  early 
winter.  He  dined  and  danced  almost  without  ceas- 
ing ;  and,  in  the  intervals  of  his  dining  and  dancing, 
he  told  over  to  Weldon  all  the  details  of  his  social 
career.  And  these  details  largely  concerned  them- 
selves with  Ethel  Dent :  how  she  looked,  what  she 
wore,  what  she  said,  with  whom  she  danced  and  with 
whom  she  sat  it  out.  And,  as  he  listened,  Weldon 


On  the  Firing  Line  281 

made  up  his  mind  that,  for  him,  the  time  for  resting 
at  home  was  ended.  It  was  better,  easier  to  go  to 
see  for  himself  than  it  was  to  sit  at  home  and 
imagine  things,  or  to  hear  about  them,  after 
they  had  happened.  There  was  to  be  a  reception 
at  the  Citadel,  next  week.  He  would  begin  with 
that. 

One  resolution  led  to  the  next.  Only  two  days 
after  he  had  determined  upon  the  reception,  he 
ordered  Kruger  Bobs  to  saddle  the  gray  broncho 
and  to  attend  him  upon  The  Nig.  Then,  when 
the  noon  sun  lay  warm  over  the  city,  he  mounted 
and,  with  Kruger  Bobs  behind  him,  he  rode  slowly 
down  Adderley  Street  to  the  water  front,  and  turned 
eastward  to  the  home  of  the  Dents. 

The  wide  veranda  and  the  great  white  pillars 
seemed  like  home  to  him,  in  all  truth.  That  house 
had  been  the  scene  of  some  of  his  best  hours,  as  of 
his  worst  ones,  and  his  heart  pounded  madly  against 
his  ribs  as  he  caught  sight  of  its  familiar  outlines. 
Then  he  drew  in  his  breath  sharply  and  bore  down 
hard  in  his  stirrups,  while  his  face  went  white  to 
the  lips.  From  the  western  end  of  the  veranda 
a  girlish  figure  had  risen,  halted  for  a  moment  with 
the  sun  beating  full  upon  her  vivid  hair;  then, 
heedless  of  the  distant  riders,  it  had  turned  and  dis- 
appeared within  the  doorway. 

The  maid's  face  brightened,  as  she  met  Weldon 
at  the  door. 


282  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  But  Mrs.  Dent  is  not  at  home,1'  she  said,  with 
honest  regret  in  her  voice.  "  She  has  gone  out  of 
town." 

Weldon  controlled  his  own  voice  as  best  he  might. 

"  And  Miss  Dent  ?  "  he  asked. 

However,  the  maid  had  just  broken  the  Baden- 
Powell  tea-cup.  Its  fragments  were  still  upon  the 
floor,  and  she  had  no  mind,  just  then,  to  face  her 
young  mistress. 

"  Miss  Dent  is  not  at  home,11  she  answered,  with 
glib  mendacity.  And  then  she  wondered  why  it 
was  that  Weldon's  pallor  turned  from  white  to  gray, 
as  he  went  away  down  the  steps. 

Nevertheless,  he  fulfilled  his  resolution  of  going 
to  the  reception  at  the  Citadel.  For  one  reason, 
he  had  given  his  word  to  Carew.  Moreover,  he 
felt  that,  for  the  honor  of  his  manhood,  he  must 
accept  his  fate  like  a  man.  Four  months  before 
that  time,  Ethel  Dent  had  stabbed  him  almost  to 
the  death.  Now,  with  delicate  precision,  she 
had  struck  him  full  across  the  face.  The  touch 
had  hurt  him  far  more  than  the  deeper  wound  had 
done;  but,  at  least,  she  should  never  be  aware  of 
it.  To  his  mind,  she  had  forfeited  all  right  to  the 
knowledge. 

He  dressed  with  careful  precision.  More  than 
once  he  was  forced  to  sit  down  for  a  moment ;  more 
than  once  his  fingers  refused  to  do  his  bidding  and 
his  hands  dropped  inertly  at  his  side.  However, 


On  the  Firing  Line  283 

Carew  found  him  waiting,  hat  in  hand,  and  together 
they  drove  away  to  the  Citadel. 

Already,  when  they  reached  the  door,  the  re- 
ception was  nearing  its  highest  tide.  The  rooms 
were  bright  with  uniforms  and  with  trailing  gowns, 
gay  with  the  hum  of  voices ;  and  the  lilt  of  a  waltz 
came  softly  to  them  from  across  the  distance.  As 
they  halted  on  the  threshold,  Weldon  lifted  his 
eyes  and  suddenly  found  them  resting  full  upon 
Ethel  Dent.  The  girl  was  quite  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  long  room,  the  central  figure  of  a  little  throng, 
and  wholly  unconscious  of  their  presence.  Her 
back  was  towards  Weldon.  He  could  only  see  the 
sweep  of  her  shimmering  gown,  the  heavy  coils  of 
yellow  hair  and  the  curve  of  one  rounding  cheek  ; 
yet,  even  in  that  partial  view,  he  felt  himself 
astounded  at  her  vitality.  It  flashed  until  it 
dazzled  him,  and  the  dazzle  hurt.  He  bowed  to 
the  governor  and  turned  away  into  another  room, 
striving,  as  he  went,  to  account  for  the  sudden 
depression  which  had  fallen  upon  him.  He  had 
not  expected  to  find  Ethel  Dent  moping  alone  in 
a  corner ;  neither  had  he  looked  for  a  radiant 
alertness  such  as  he  had  never  seen  in  her  before. 
During  the  long  weeks  of  his  illness,  his  mental 
picture  of  her  had  been  colored  by  the  sadness  of 
their  last  meeting.  Now  the  picture  was  torn 
aside  and  a  new  one  thrust  into  its  place,  and 
the  new  one  seemed  garish  to  his  weary  nerves. 


284  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Weldon  !  Have  you  risen  from  the  grave  ?  " 

He  turned  sharply,  to  find  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  captain  of  his  former  troop. 

"Merely  from  hospital,"  he  answered.  "I  have 
been  lying  up  for  repairs." 

The  other  man  nodded. 

"I  know;  and  thereby  adding  to  the  glamour 
which  surrounds  a  man  elect  for  the  V.  C.  Are 
you  all  right  again?" 

Weldon's  voice  hardened  to  match  the  strain  he 
was  putting  upon  his  control. 

"  Absolutely.     I  am  sailing  for  home,  next  week." 

"And  taking  a  farewell  view  of  the  place, 
before  you  go?  Then  come  to  meet  the  prettiest 
girl  in  Cape  Town." 

For  an  instant,  Weldon  hesitated.  Then,  reas- 
sured by  the  direction  taken  by  his  guide,  he 
followed,  while  the  strains  of  the  waltz  came  ever 
more  distinctly  to  his  ears.  His  companion  craned 
his  neck  to  reconnoitre. 

"  She  is  dancing  now ;  but  she  will  be  through  in 
a  moment.  There,"  he  added,  as  the  music  rose 
to  a  crashing  finale ;  "  that  is  over,  and,  by  George, 
here  she  is  !  Miss  Dent,  may  I  introduce  another 
war-worn  veteran,  Mr.  Weldon  ? " 

The  shock  came  so  suddenly  that  neither  of  them 
had  an  opportunity  to  prepare  to  resist  it.  It  was 
Weldon  who  spoke  first,  however,  and  his  voice 
was  level,  for  he  was  generous  enough  to  take  none 


On  the  Firing  Line  285 

of  the  advantage  which  so  plainly  was  all  upon  his 
side. 

"  Miss  Dent  and  I  are  old  acquaintances,"  he  said 
quietly. 

Fortunately  the  captain  was  garrulous. 

"Another  proof  of  the  smallness  of  the  world," 
he  said  jovially.  "  In  time,  I  shall  learn  the  fu- 
tility of  introductions.  One  is  always  pointing 
out  next-door  neighbors  to  each  other's  notice. 
By  the  way,  Weldon,  did  n't  you  know  Frazer  rather 
well  ?  I  used  to  meet  him  at  your  house  so  often, 
Miss  Dent." 

Ethel's  fingers  shut  upon  the  sticks  of  her  fan. 

"  Yes,"  she  assented.  "  Captain  Frazer  was  one 
of  our  best  friends." 

All  at  once,  the  face  of  the  young  captain  grew 
grave. 

"  I  remember  now,"  he  said  quite  slowly.  "  But 
his  loss  was  a  sorrow  to  us  all.  His  place  can  never 
be  entirely  filled." 

There  came  a  momentary  pause.  Then,  as  the 
captain's  broad  shoulders  vanished  in  the  heart 
of  the  crowd,  Weldon  turned  and  looked  Ethel 
squarely  between  the  eyes. 

"  Believe  me,  Miss  Dent,"  he  said  simply ;  "  this 
is  none  of  my  doing." 

She  made  no  pretence  of  misunderstanding  him. 
Instead  of  that,  her  quiet  voice  was  full  of  bitter- 
ness, as  she  gave  brief  answer,  — 


286  On  the  Firing  Line 

"  Quite  obviously,  Mr.  Weldon." 

"  Thank  you  for  doing  me  that  justice,"  he  said, 
after  an  instant  when  their  meeting  eyes  flashed 
like  meeting  blades  of  steel.  "  Stuart  had  no  notion 
that  he  was  making  a  mess  of  things." 

She  faced  him  a  little  proudly. 

"  I  am  unable  to  see  what  mess  he  can  have  made, 
Mr.  Weldon.  It  is  always  a  pleasure  to  meet  an 
old  acquaintance." 

Few  things  could  have  hurt  him  more  than  the 
icy  conventionality  of  her  words.  All  the  gentler 
side  of  his  nature  was  crying  out  for  mercy ;  but  he 
smothered  its  cries  and  faced  her  bravely,  praying 
the  while  for  some  one  to  come  to  them  and  end 
the  scene.  The  Ethel  Dent  he  had  known  in  the 
old  days  had  been  a  woman  of  flesh  and  blood; 
this  was  a  statue  of  marble,  polished  and  beautiful, 
but  cold  withal.  He  could  only  seek  to  meet  her 
with  equal  coldness,  then  make  his  escape  to  nurse 
his  wounds  unseen.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  his 
resolutions  to  the  contrary,  a  sudden  heat  crept  into 
his  answering  words,  — 

"But  I  thought  you  had  annulled  the  acquaint- 
ance." 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  mute  surprise.  Then, 
mustering  her  pride,  she  forced  herself  to  smile. 

"  I  ? "  she  answered  lightly.  "  Oh,  no,  I  am  only 
too  proud  to  count  a  V.  C.  among  my  friends." 

He  waited  until  the  last  word  had  dropped  from 


On  the  Firing  Line  287 

her  lips,  waited  until  the  silence  had  dropped  over 
the  last  word.  Then  he  faced  her  yet  once  again. 
This  time,  there  was  determination  in  his  eyes, 
determination  and  a  great,  indomitable  love. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said  imperiously ;  "  for  God's  sake, 
stop  fencing  with  me,  and  have  it  out.  Remember 
it  is  now,  or  never." 

The  color  mounted  swiftly  across  her  face,  then 
faded,  and  even  to  her  own  ears  her  laugh  failed  to 
ring  true. 

"  I  am  sorry  ;  but  I  fear  it  is  impossible.  Here 
comes  Colonel  Andersen  for  his  dance." 

Weldon  faced  about. 

"  Colonel  Andersen,  Miss  Dent  is  longing  for  an 
ice,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  masterful  quietness. 
"  May  I  take  a  convalescent's  privilege  and  ask  you 
to  bring  it  to  her?"  Then  he  turned  back  to 
Ethel.  "  Come,"  he  bade  her. 

**  Where  ?  "  she  protested ;  but  she  yielded  to  his 
stronger  will  and  followed  him  across  the  floor 
towards  a  deserted  corner  of  the  room. 

"  Anywhere,  where  we  can  talk  for  a  moment," 
he  answered  her,  with  the  same  dominant  quietness. 
Then,  while  they  halted  beside  an  open  window,  he 
bent  forward  and  laid  his  hand  upon  hers,  as  it 
rested  upon  the  sill.  "Ethel,"  he  added;  "I  am 
going  home,  next  week.  I  may  never  see  South 
Africa  again.  Before  I  go — " 

Quietly  she  withdrew  her  hand. 


288  On  the  Firing  Line 

"Before  you  go,  you  will  come  to  say  good  by  to 
my  mother,  I  hope,"  she  said,  with  a  steadiness  which 
gave  no  hint  of  the  tears  behind  her  lowered  lids. 

Impatiently  he  brushed  her  words  aside. 

"That  is  for  you  to  say.  First  of  all,  I  must 
know  one  thing. " 

Her  nerve  was  failing  fast ;  but  she  still  held  to 
her  resolve  that  he  should  gain  no  hint  of  her  weak- 
ness. She  drew  back  a  step,  as  if  his  vehemence 
terrified  her,  yet  she  dared  not  raise  her  eyes  to 
his.  It  was  all  she  could  do  to  hold  her  voice  in 
subjection. 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  waited  for  an  instant,  before  he  answered  her 
question.  Her  next  words  might  contain  all,  or 
nothing.  His  lips  shut  to  a  narrow  line ;  then  he 
straightened  his  shoulders. 

"  Ethel,""  he  said  rapidly  ;  "  I  have  been  in  a  good 
many  fights ;  I  Ve  found  that  it  hurts  more  to  l)e 
mangled  than  it  does  to  be  killed.  Speak  out,  then, 
and  end  this  thing  once  for  all.  Was  it  final,  what 
you  said  to  the  Captain,  that  day  ?  " 

She  bit  her  lip ;  but  her  voice  would  not  come, 
and  she  could  only  give  a  little,  dreary  nod. 
Weldon  watched  her  steadily  for  a  moment ;  then 
he  turned  to  go  away. 

For  another  moment,  Ethel  stared  after  him, 
heedless  now  of  the  drops  that  were  sliding  down  her 
cheeks.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  she  found  her  voice. 


On  the  Firing  Line  289 

"  Wait  !  "  she  said,  as  she  stepped  forward  with  a 
swift  gesture  which  was  wholly  imploring,  wholly 
feminine.  "  It  may  have  been  final ;  but  finality  is 
not  always  truth." 

He  halted  at  her  words. 

"  And  you  mean  ? " 

"  I  mean,"  she  answered  him ;  "  I  mean  that 
then,  and  now,  and  always,  I  loved  one  man,  and 
he  —  "  she  caught  her  breath ;  then  she  lifted  her 
head  proudly  ;  "  was  you.  The  rest  was  all  a  mis- 
take ;  but  I  did  what  I  thought  was  best." 

Weldon  bowed  his  head. 

"  No  matter  now,"  he  answered. 

Then,  taking  her  hand,  he  led  her  back  to  the 
open  window  where  they  stood  together  long, 
while,  in  the  room  beyond,  an  anxious  colonel 
threaded  his  way  to  and  fro  in  the  crowd,  im- 
patiently hunting  the  partner  in  whose  memory 
he  had  ceased  to  exist. 

THE    END 


IMiss  Ray's  Story  of  Modern  Quebec 

BY  THE  GOOD  SAINTE 

ANNE 

By  Anna  Chapin  Ray 

New  Illustrated  Edition,  with  full-page  plates  from  photographs 
of  streets  and  scenes  in  Quebec.    I2mo.    $1.50. 


"THERE  is  much  that  is  of  interest  to  visitors  to 
*  Quebec  in  this  bright,  entertaining  story,  and  the 
illustrations  which  have  been  added  will  make  it  still 
more  attractive  to  travellers  as  well  as  to  the  general 
reader.  The  illustrations  are  from  photographs  taken 
especially  for  the  book  by  Livernois,  and  include  the 
following  subjects :  the  Church  of  the  Good  Ste.  Anne, 
the  Basilica,  the  Saint  Louis  Gate,  Sous-le-Cap,  Cham- 
plain  Market,  Sillery  Cove,  etc. 

A  clever  story  of  Modern  Quebec,  which  is  entertaining  because  of  its  simple, 
fresh  plot,  and  bright  with  amusing  conflicts  between  the  young  representatives 
of  America,  England,  and  English  and  French  Canada.  A  merry  girl  with  a 
touch  of  American  audacity  makes  a  good  heroine.  —  The  Outlook,  New  York. 

Everything  about  the  book  is  the  best  of  its  kind ;  from  start  to  finish  it  is 
bright,  lively,  full  of  humor,  and  causative  of  that  inward  satisfaction  and 
occasionally  outward  chuckling  which  makes  the  reader  satisfied  with  himself 
and  the  world  in  general.  —  Literary  World,  Boston. 

An  extremely  entertaining  story.  ...  It  is  a  clean,  fresh,  charming  love 
story,  the  conversations  are  bright  and  epigrammatic  and  the  situations 
natural  and  amusing.  —  Nashville  American. 

Its  pictures  of  life  amid  the  quaintnesses  of  Canada  are  faithful  and  enter- 
taining.—  Boston  Transcript. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  TuUisbers, 

BOSTON,  MASS. 


THE 

DOMINANT  STRAIN 

By  ANNA  CHAPIN  RAY,  author  of  "By  the  Good 

Sainte  Anne,"  "  Teddy  :  Her  Book,"  etc.     Illustrated 

in  color.     12mo.    $1.50 

In  "  The  Dominant  Strain"  Anna  Chapin  Ray  proves 
her  fitness  to  rank  high  in  the  list  of  latter-day  fictionists. 
.  .  .  You  cannot  lay  down  her  book,  nor  lose  interest  in 
it  when  the  story  is  fairly  started.  Her  people  are  just 
as  much  alive  to  you  as  any  one  you  know ;  you  almost 
feel  that  you  must  have  met  them  somewhere,  and  that 
what  she  tells  about  them  is  confirmation  of  something 
you  had  heard  about  them  before,  but  had  forgotten. — 
Philadelphia  Telegraph. 

The  story  is  human  and  holds  the  attention  until  the 
satisfying  climax  is  reached.  —  Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

There  is  a  good  bit  of  clever  character  work  in  the  book, 
and  the  dialogue  is  bright  and  witty. — Chicago  Journal. 

The  characters  are  strongly  drawn  and  there  is  no  flag- 
ging of  interest  to  the  end.  Some  excellent  color  illustra- 
tions by  Mr.  Harry  C.  Edwards  add  to  the  book's 
attractions. — Toledo  Blade. 

A  clever,  original,  and  piquant  novel  of  modern  life. — 
Vogue. 

We  have  seldom  read  a  book  that  made  stronger  appeal 
to  all  the  emotions  that  are  aroused  and  kept  alive  by  the 
really  fine  in  literature.  —  Nashville  American. 

A  good  picture  of  the  way  in  which  musical  people  are 
received  in  New  York  society  —  first  snubbed  and  then 
lionized.  —  Providence  Journal. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  fcf  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
BOSTON,  MASS. 


A  Masterpiece  of  Native  Humor 


SUSAN  CLEGG  AND  HER 
FRIEND  MRS.  LATHROP 


By  ANNE  WARNER 
Author  of  "  A  Woman's  Will,"  etc. 

With  Frontispiece.     2-27  pages.     12mo.     $1.00. 

IT  is  seldom  a  book  so  full  of  delightful  humor  comes 
before  the  reader.    Anne  Warner  takes  her  place  in  the 
circle  of  American  woman  humorists,  who  have  achieved 
distinction  so  rapidly  within  recent  years. — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

Nothing  better  in  the  new  homely  philosophy  style  of 
fiction  has  been  written. — San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

Anne  Warner  has  given  us  the  rare  delight  of  a  book 
that  is  extremely  funny.  Hearty  laughter  is  in  store  for 
every  reader. — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

Susan  is  a  positive  contribution  to  the  American  char- 
acters in  fiction. — Brooklyn  Times. 

Susan  Clegg  is  a  living  creature,  quite  as  amusing  and 
even  more  plausible  than  Mrs.  Wiggs.  Susan's  human 
weaknesses  are  endearing,  and  we  find  ourselves  in  sym- 
pathy with  her. — New  York  Evening  Post. 

No  more  original  or  quaint  person  than  she  has  ever 
lived  in  fiction. — Newark  Advertiser. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  BOSTON 
At  all  Booksellers' 


A  Wholesome,  Merry  Love  Story 


SWEET  PEGGY 


By  LINNIE  SARAH  HARRIS 
Illustrated  by  Henry  J.  Peck.     279  pages.     12mo.     $1.50. 

PEGGY,  the  heroine  of  this  merry  love  story,  is  a  win- 
some, natural,  country  girl,  with  a  genuine  love  for 
song.    The  book  is  the  cheeriest  bit  of  musical  fiction  of 
recent  years. 

The  story  will  make  a  way  for  itself  in  the  heart  of  that 
part  of  the  world  that  loves  a  lover  and  his  love.—  New 
Orleans  Picayune. 

It  is  really  refreshing  to  come  upon  a  lightsome,  jolly, 
and  wholesome  love  story  in  the  good  old-fashioned  manner, 
with  no  psychological  analyses. — Detroit  Free  Press. 

Peggy  is  the  blithest  of  little  heroines,  alluring,  piquant, 
tantalizing,  and  withal  tender  and  womanly.  The  story 
abounds  in  sparkling  dialogue,  humor,  and  pathos,  clearly 
denned  against  a  background  of  the  everlasting  hills. — 
Rockland  (Me.)  Courier-Gazette. 

Rarely  indeed  do  we  open  a  novel  or  tale  that  contains 
so  much  of  nature ;  physical  nature,  human  nature,  poetry, 
feeling  and  sentiment  as  is  embraced  in  this  story.  .  .  The 
most  charming  love  story  we  have  read  in  many  years. — 
Pittsburg  Index. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  BOSTON 
At  all  Bookseller*' 


A     000  051  404     2 


V          ,  •--  -.    .    ' 

f  ,       ; 


